


212 Lincoln Falconer Street

by Tigresse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1895, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, BAMF John, Fluff, GhostJim, Haunting, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jim was a criminal, Jim was killed, M/M, Protective John, Revenge, Romance, Sherlock is a marshal, Sherlock is a sheriff, True Love, United States, Victorian, slash and smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-12-21 09:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21072779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Present day - A 120 year old house is reportedly haunted. People shy away from occupying it until a young man decides to explore and uncovers the heartwarming and heartbreaking truth about the house and the two men who lived there.1895 - Sherlock wins a house as a reward for his heroic work as a marshal. In that house he encounters a spirit he was desperate to reconnect with





	1. Why this house

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Horner.”

The handsome and tall young man seemed to be in a hurry. He gave a polite nod and stood up, already moving towards the door. “Hello. So, shall we go and see the house?” Clearly he was not interested in pleasantries or anything else that wasted his time.

The real estate shark gave a sharp look to his agent, making a subtle gesture that indicated ‘He needs a house desperately so ensure you close the sale today’. The agent, a young lemon haired woman named Pamela, seemed a bit reluctant, her body language held all forms of hesitation that the wealthy and prospective buyer would sooner or later pick up on, so the shark of a businessman decided that an intervention was absolutely necessary. “Sean,” he addressed the buyer with a pleading voice, “I seem to have mistakenly picked up the wrong keys. Give us a few minutes and we will be right there with you. Pam, come on, let’s look for the keys quickly.”

“Yes, make it quick. I need to pick up my partner in an hour.”

“Won’t be more than two minutes.”

Pamela mutely followed her boss till they entered a small meeting room just down the hallway from the boss’s imposing cabin. Mark Grigoris had not become a millionaire overnight. His fancy office, trained staff and swanky car hadn’t been inherited, it was all painstakingly built over decades of hard work and perseverance. Naturally, the man was not averse to cutting corners here and there and sometimes could not see anything over and above a wad of cash or a sizeable bank transfer.

“We have to close this deal, Pam,” he said to the young woman, “You can’t let your emotions rule you. You’re aware how long the house has been sitting on our heads and gathering dust, giving us no returns at all, and you damn well know that is bad for business. Go seal the deal.”

“You remember what happened to the last three owners, you remember the tenants and how they had to _run away_……”

“Pam, look out there on the street. This fellow drives a Chevrolet Corvette ZR1 Convertible. It is a hundred and twenty five thousand dollar vehicle. He showed me his partner’s photograph and that boy drives a Mercedes AMG GLS63. Look at his clothes, all branded. Did you see his watch? It is a fucking Rolex, costs more than your house perhaps. He and his partner are worth a cool ten million at least. If we let a customer like this out of our hands…..I’ll be _very upset_.”

She nodded, the implied reference to being ‘fired’ very clear. He spoke in a low, threatening voice, “If I were a single mum with two kids to feed and send to school, plus a mortgage to pay off on my own house, I would look after my _own interests_ before those of others. Understood?”

A big sigh and another nod. “Yes, of course Mark, I understood. I’ll show him the house and try to seal the deal today.”

***

“There is it, 212 Lincoln Falconer Street,” Pamela said as soon as they had turned a corner, “It’s the house at the end of the street.” It was a posh, quiet and prosperous neighborhood, where people believed in respecting privacy and one could lead a life they wanted, without intrusion, judgement or interference. Pretty independent houses, detached properties with sizeable driveways and multiple garages, spacious villas with grass and trees around them, there were all sorts of homes one could find there. Sean was impressed already as he drove up the sloping street and parked just outside the ornamental wrought iron gate.

“This is amazing, Jeremy will be so happy,” he exclaimed, his eyes holding the wondrous delight of a child who had just discovered a candy store.

Pamela looked at him, severe dilemma gripping her. _Should I, shouldn’t I? Maybe I should? But then, Mark won’t be happy, he can actually fire me, what if I seal three more deals this month and achieve my target_…..She was brought back to the present by Sean Horner’s incessant rambling about how he loved the quaint, somewhat old-fashioned design of the house and the fact that the street ended right there, giving it a strategically marvelous position. “It’s open on all sides, there is a park behind and gives it a nice green touch to the surroundings, wow, the garden is very well maintained, two car garage, the spear fencing and lawns, this is perfect.”

He caught her staring at him and stopped, “Shall we go inside now?”

“Yes.”

“We need to automate the door.”

“It already is. Burglar alarms, anti-intrusion mechanisms, remote controlled windows and security enabled doors, name it and you have it.”

“How many bedrooms do we have?”

“Five, including two master and three guest bedrooms. Walk-in closets and attached bathrooms with every bedroom, plus an extra washroom on the ground level, next to the living room. You have two home offices, a large modern kitchen and breakfast area, a formal dining room, a conservatory and herb garden, a place to barbeque, a small pool and a changing room in the backyard and a loft space with pyramid skylight ceiling and glass façade on three sides. You also have a basement where you have staff quarters for two retainers, including toilets, a wine cellar and a store room.”

“Fantastic. Shall we then?”

_This is your last chance, tell him before it’s too late. He should make an informed decision, you owe him that. Ethics and integrity are important…….no, no, no, none of those things will pay my bills._ “Sure,” she said with a resigned shrug and fished out a set of keys from her bag, walking up to the porch and unlocking the door. “We haven’t activated the security code yet,” she explained, “You have a manual override with these keys. We have made four sets of them, for families that have different members on different schedules and no live-in help to answer the door in case the rest of the members are out. Or you can just disable the key-based entrance and only keep the code-based system, your choice.”

As they walked into the property, going from room to room, she gave answers to all his questions while he peered into every corner, every closet and thoroughly inspected the basement. Pamela noticed it as the minutes pass. _He is no babe in the woods, he might be less than thirty but seems like an intelligent, observant man!_ As they reached the loft space, beautifully lit by the sun’s rays, Sean gave her a strange look. “You know, for someone who calls herself a real estate agent, you don’t seem very enthused about the sale.”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that.”

“Your boss seems to have bullied you into silence.”

“Not really Mr. Horner…..”

“Sean, please.”

“Sean, I am just a bit under the weather,” she said, fiddling with the edge of her blouse-sleeve, “I apologize if I don’t seem too excited or talkative but I assure you I am able to answer any questions that you might have on this property.”

Those light green orbs of enormous depth stared right into her light brown ones, the eyebrows above them twitched and the young man suddenly looked suspicious. “Then just answer this,” he said, leaning against a full length bay window, “What is wrong with this house? Why do you seem so unwilling to sell it to me? And also, why is it on the market for merely one million when the very next house is on sale for three, that too a smaller one.”

_That’s it, I cannot lie, not anymore, not when the question has been directly posed to me_. Pamela took a deep breath, her mind made up, her slumped shoulders straightening. Truth would be spoken now, no matter the cost.

“Because this house is believed to be haunted.”

Sean Horner looked at her through wide, horrified eyes, then stepped back a little. His eyes moved to a spot behind her and he made a choked sound before raising a finger to point in that direction. Pamela felt icicles form on her spine and she cautiously turned around, expecting the worst, but found nothing but an empty spot and another bay window behind herself.

As she turned her eyes back on the young man, confusion and puzzlement written large on her face, he simply burst out laughing. He laughed and laughed, clutching his sides and shaking his head, as if she was some heathen from the sixteenth century. Her spirit was crushed a bit and her mood dropped significantly, here she was trying to help at the cost of losing her job and there he was, the young upstart, laughing on her face. She felt rather insulted, but he was the customer after all and customer was king, especially during these times where jobs were hard to come by and businesses were shutting down. So she didn’t dare to call him out on his rude behavior, calming herself down with deep breaths.

“Ohhhhh, that’s so rich,” Sean was near breathless.

“It’s okay if you don’t believe me,” she said evenly, keeping up a small smile, “It was my duty not to let you get blindsided..”

“You want to sell it to _someone else_, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Lady, I _am_ buying this place, whether you’re happy about that or not. My partner and I have been looking for a property like this for months, no, make that _years_. A house with a charming, old fashioned exterior but thoroughly refurbished and modern inside, with some grass around it and a pool, where we don’t see the neighbor’s window from our own, a spacious loft like this where my partner can set up his studio, and this comes for a great price as well.”

This time she decided to bare it all. If there was one thing she hated, it was someone doubting her integrity or calling her a liar. “And have you considered why this comes for a low price? If people were tripping over each other’s feet to buy this property, it would have been listed for at least three million. Half a million was spent last year on repairs, maintenance, installing a modern kitchen and heating system, plus the security details.”

He frowned, “I don’t believe in myths about haunted houses and all that…..”

“_I didn’t either_,” she snapped mildly, sounding none too pleased, “Neither am I saying I have _seen anything_. But if you hear the history of this house I am pretty sure you’ll have your doubts too. This property has been unoccupied but thirty years, yes, almost thirty years. The last owner died two years ago and Mark got it for a steal since no one else would buy it. Yes, Mark did warn me not to tell you about this but I still took a chance, I have risked my job to tell you what you should know, so you make an informed decision. The least you can do is not accuse me of being a manipulative bitch.”

Her honesty seemed to transform him and he apologized promptly for his earlier behavior. “Sorry Pamela, I didn’t _mean_ to be rude. But you got me _curious_ now. What is the history of this house? When was it built? Is there anything else you want to share?”

***

She took him down to the store room in the basement, which had a few packing boxes and crates, mostly empty, and a large cabinet with little knick-knacks on its shelves. The whole place was cleaned and aired every week to give it a lived-in look, so the basement was neither damp nor dirty. Instead it had a cozy feel to it. Sean inspected the recently upgraded central heating system, which was placed bang in the middle of the room, while Pamela called a nearby café and asked them to deliver two cappuccinos. Once the coffee was there, they sipped on it while she opened a trunk and showed him the contents. The more he looked at those things, the more intrigued Sean became.

“This was built in 1890,” Pamela began, “The first owner was apparently a notorious criminal. They say he died here. Five years later, a young sheriff came to live in this house. Even then, the house had a reputation. The sheriff stayed here because no one else would.”

“I see that the items here belong to both of them,” Sean murmured, looking through the various belongings, “One could easily assume they were a couple…….their things mingle so well together.” He looked at the clothes, the boots, the old fashioned pistols, the pipe, the glasses, an old broken violin, some books and more tellingly, a few photos. They were grainy and faded, withered and bent at the corners, with patches on them that had whitened out completely, but even then he could figure out those men were in their twenties, mid to late, and looked quite handsome. Only one photo had them both together in the same frame, every other was a solo pic of either one of them.

“They _were _a couple Sean, though I would call them an unusual couple,” Pamela picked up a heavy box and opened it.

“What do you mean? _Same sex couple_, that too back in those days when it was considered a disease, hence…..?”

“No, I mean…..well, if you read this diary, _you’ll know_. I have read it many times and it’s a bit of a tearjerker, I am _warning_ you. I made a promise to myself that I’ll show this to any buyer who offers to actually purchase this property, and ensure they read it well ahead of the deal being sealed. If they still wanna buy this house, so be it! Anyways, the reason I called them unusual because one of them was _alive_ and the other was _not_.”

Sean opened the diary enthusiastically, clearly getting transformed from a doubting Thomas to an open-minded Owen. His eyes skimmed over the first two or three pages. The date mentioned on the inside of the cover was January 14th, 1895. The name mentioned on the first page was ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes’. The first entry began with ‘Today I moved into the infamous house and met Jim for the first time.’

“Call your boss and tell him we will need some time,” Sean told Pamela, settling down properly with the diary, “I’ll text my partner and ask him to go straight to the hotel where I’m staying currently. I don’t think we will finish this in any less than three or fours hours…..and I do intend to read these diaries, both the volumes.”

Pamela did as she was told, somehow managing to convince Mark that there was nothing wrong yet and the deal was still on, just that Sean needed some time to consult with his partner and therefore was not ready to ink it yet. By the time she had finished the call she saw Sean on a call with his partner, telling him the house was beautiful, it was just what they wanted, but he needed a bit of time to get through the paperwork. Hence he wouldn’t be there to pick him up from the airport. Once done, they returned to the diaries and this time Pamela knew the young man was just as hooked as she had been, and he would really read this to the end. Not wishing to interrupt him while he did so, she asked the burning question on her mind right away.

“Sean, why this house?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why were you so eager to buy this house?”

“I still am.”

“Okay, why?”

Sean’s eyes fixed her with a look of determination. “When I like someone or something, I just get them. I know this house is for me, but more so for my partner. I am a musician, as you know probably, and my partner is a painter. A famous one. Both of us love eclectic, quirky things and things that just slot into our lives effortlessly. Whether it’s a house or dogs or a piece of furniture, I just go for it. I saw a picture of this house and I thought….yes, I want this, and this will be my first anniversary gift to my Jeremy.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes. We are. Have been seeing each other since high school so about time we got married.”

“Wow.”

“Okay, let’s read about Sherlock and James now.”


	2. October 1895

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheriff and marshal Sherlock moves into a house gifted by the town's mayor for his heroic work against criminals and outlaws. But why would he want to move into a house that's reputedly haunted by a malevolent spirit and where several people have died or lost their minds!

_October 01, 1895_

_Today I moved into the infamous house and met Jim for the first time. Or should I say ghost Jim. _

_At the outset nothing seemed to be wrong with the house. Despite its legacy, I was actually quite eager to be here, to be part of this property, to experience it to the core and understand what it was trying to communicate. It’s not an old house and its short history could be mistaken for a frivolous little sojourn that ended way too soon with Jim’s death two years ago. But time alone doesn’t determine what a house can be or how deep are the roots of its happiness, tragedy or desires. Yes, this house seems to have a desire, a desire to be filled with laughter, love and life, which seemed to permeate into me the moment I stepped in with my luggage and a few other items. _

_Mrs. Hudson, my housekeeper, is a sweet lady. She is the only one who agreed to work here. No one else would. I got a gardener too, actually a neighbor named John Watson. He is a doctor, a nice chap who somehow likes me and wants to be my friend. God bless him, he has no idea what a terrible friend I am. In fact, I am a terrible everything aside from my profession. I have been a terrible son, brother, friend and…..lover. Ask Jim. Actually, I want to ask him so. _

_I am aware this house has been unkind, even hostile with the six families, persons, whoever have tried to stay here over the past eighteen months. People are telling me several have died here or barely escaped with their lives. Some have suffered shocks too terrible to overcome quickly. One is still in a sanatorium, raving out histrionics on a daily basis, being given electric shocks. I was warned time and again that this house has drawn me towards it, so it could take over my soul, whereas I have willingly sought ‘refuge’ in it. _

_My brother, a minor government official as he calls himself but actually a very senior and powerful man in the government, is so upset with me he’s refusing to talk to me. Mummy and daddy are also livid. Daddy says he has bought me a house on Bentinck Avenue, then why this?_

_How can I tell them, my Jim is here. _

_I felt him the moment I stepped in. It was like a sigh of relief. He knew I was finally here. The way all the curtains fluttered while there was not even a hint of a breeze anywhere, that told me the real tale. _

_Then, as I was unpacking and Mrs. Hudson was calling me downstairs, telling me she had cooked dinner and was about to leave, I heard footsteps go down the stairwell. If ole’ Hudders was downstairs and I was here, then who might be that?_

_So I emerged from my room and came to stand at the top of the stairwell, looking down at Mrs. Hudson who stood at the bottom of it. My senses got a jolt. Jim was standing right behind her. _

***

Sherlock sat at the dinner table, marveling at the electric bulbs around him, two in the living room, two in the den, one each in the kitchen and dining room, one at the top of the staircase and one each in all the bedrooms. The master bath also had one and all of this was such a boon. There was gas and candlelight arrangements too, especially in the loft and the basement and all the smaller rooms and baths, but electricity, a pathbreaking invention made only a decade ago, was so much more convenient that many people yearned for it without the hope of actually having that facility. It was expensive, the availability and awareness was also quite rare.

Mrs. Hudson had cooked chicken and rice and put some salad on the side. Sherlock poured himself a whisky and a glass of water, starting with the water first and then taking sips of the brew. His food remained untouched.

_Suddenly he saw him again_. He was seated at the other end of the dining table that could comfortably hold ten guests, four on each side, two at the opposite ends. Most of the furniture there belonged to Jim and since the man was not short of money while he lived, every item was quite plush and elegant. From the chandelier to the table and chairs, the cabinets and ottomans, the side tables and trolleys, it was all perfect. And amidst all that sat their former owner, looking straight at Sherlock. Sherlock stared back at the shimmery figure, drinking in the sight, narrowing and widening his eyes alternately as the man’s outline seemed to shift and blur, making it hard for him to concentrate. After a few second he stood up and said, “Just be steady, will you? I want to take a good look at you.”

He thought he heard a faint murmur.

“I don’t speak Hebrew,” he said.

“You forgot to say please.”

“Huh?”

“You want to take a good look at me, ask nicely.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped slightly. Sassy as ever, even in death and afterlife. Just as I had expected. A small smile crept up on him as he said, “Please James, let me take a good look at you, please.”

“That’s better.”

He could figure out the words now but they seemed distant, as if someone was talking to him through a wall, faint whispers and murmurs that he had to strain his ears to listen to. Before he knew it, Sherlock found himself asking for something more than just a chance of a good look at Jim. “Can you not talk to me a bit louder, or come closer perhaps, I don’t know how this works for you but if I have to strain my ears _every time_ to hear you, chances are that I might not hear quite a few things you’ve spoken already. During daytime there will also be ambient noise.”

In a flash Jim was right in front of him, seated on a chair right next to his, his face just a few inches from Sherlock’s.

It was a bit of a jump scare and Sherlock recoiled in his chair for a moment. He wasn’t really afraid, he was just a bit taken aback by this sudden movement which, by any human means, was _impossible_. But the Jim was not human anymore, he existed in the state of a specter_. I need to get used to such things_, he made a mental note to himself. Jim on the other hand seemed to be offended by that reaction and promptly vanished, making Sherlock groan with disappointment and reach out blindly towards the chair. His hand connected with the wood and upholstery and he withdrew it, pouting and fuming about the moody ghost. “It seems you’re the same moody creature I met a few years ago. I wasn’t prepared for that, okay? No need to get anal about it.”

In response his glass of whiskey was splashed on to his face.

***

Sherlock lay in bed that night, unable to sleep.

Tossing and turning, grumbling and muttering, he kept counting backwards from a thousand, counted imaginary sheep, tried to remember the most boring conversations he had ever had in his twenty eight years of life. No, it didn’t work and he remained awake as ever.

An owl hooted outside and Sherlock laughed in the darkness of the room. Great, he had some company at this ungodly hour. An owl. Something was better than nothing, especially since Jim seemed to have abandoned him too. But no, Jim was around and he understood that from the mutter next to him, right there next to him on the bed, as he laughed. “Hey,” he sat up and lit a candle, then heard more curses as the candle was blown out by an unseen force, “You are really here, still!!!”

“Of course,” the ghost replied, “This is my house.”

“It is also mine. I got this as a reward for catching those crooks, the Gaternicker brothers. The mayor has given me the papers, all duly signed, as a reward.”

“It will always be mine.”

“Okay, the house is ours, how about that?”

A sigh was heard, then a snort, then the faint words ‘Fine, deal.’

Silence prevailed for a while before Sherlock whispered, “Jim, you still here? Are you _awake_?”

A rustle of sheets and he felt something move next to him, though he was sure it was just his extra sensory perception that picked it up. Jim was like the wind, he could feel him but he didn’t really have the solid presence of a human who could rustle sheets or dip the mattress. “Can I please light a candle and smoke my pipe, just for ten minutes, please?”

The word ‘please’ seemed to do a lot for Jim and he said a faint ‘okay’ within a few moments. Sherlock thanked him softly before he struck a matchstick and lit the candle on the nightstand. The electric bulb would be too much of a bother, what with the switch being next to the door and his general reluctance to leave the bed and walk up to it. He lit the pipe from a second matchstick and started to puff on it, sitting up and propped against the headboard. He heard a soft growl and then felt the mattress move again. “Did you just roll over to the other side,” he asked curiously, leaning over the spot next to him, “Can you please turn and face me and let me see you again, please-please-please?!?”

Jim appeared before his eyes and rolled over. Then…..

A loud curse and Jim was rolling off the bed. Sherlock instinctively tried to hold him but his hands cut straight through the ghost and Jim fell off. The floorboards creaked faintly but Sherlock wasn’t sure if that was because of Jim’s sudden fall or if his movements on the bed had caused that. Whatever it was, he was fairly amused by the situation (seriously, a ghost falling off the bed was _funny_) and couldn’t help but ask, “Did I scare _you this time_, the same way you had given me a jump scare before in the dining room?”

“Asshole,” Jim climbed back on the bed.

Sherlock turned and faced him, curling up slightly against the pillows. “Now you know how I felt. But how did this happen to you? Why scared of me?”

“Jump scare you moron. Suddenly you were within _kissing_ distance.”

“Hehe, do ghosts also get _jump scares_, do they _sleep_, do they _eat_?”

“We don’t eat but sometimes the aroma of food satiates us in a strange way, like we have had a full meal. We don’t need much sleep unless we are stressed out or depressed but sleeping is a pleasurable activity, something I didn’t bother much with while I was alive, so yes, I sleep. And we react pretty much the same way to things like humans do. If you suddenly bark at me or sneak up to me from behind, I will get a jump scare.”

“Oho, that’s good information. I had no idea about how ghosts functioned but from what you said, it seems like…..okay, _sorry_, I will be quiet now!”

“Your pipe bothers me, the light does too, and when you’re done and lie back down stop moving around so fucking much. _I can’t sleep_.” Jim sounded quite annoyed while Sherlock was amused, enthused and very boyish in expressing it. Gosh, so Jim was _almost like a human_, just not in a solid form as he himself was. “Fair enough,” he said in a voice far too cheerful for that time of the night, “I’ll put out the pipe now.”

He took a good look at the former criminal as the ghost lay next to him, facing him this time. The brunette was quite a beauty. Raven dark locks framing a heart shaped face, shapely eyebrows, sculpted jawline, full lips, and those eyes, oh dear God those dark pretty brown eyes! Death had lent a slight pallor to his skin but other than that he was just like Sherlock remembered him, attractive and sensuous and very cute and adorable too!

***

For some reason Sherlock didn’t see or feel Jim in or around the house for the next whole week. It upset him in ways he couldn’t fathom and at one point it felt so debilitating that he managed to get through the day’s work, then got sodding drunk in a pub and caught the attention of a friendly neighbor. As he sat there, in one corner of the bar and desperately wishing he could get home without crashing face first the moment he got up from that barstool, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a light, assuring touch and Sherlock turned around slowly, squinting through the haze of alcohol to stare into the face of John Watson.

“Someone has filled himself to the brim, it looks like,” said the man in a pleasant, very affable manner. “Bartender,” he addressed the bulky man across the counter, “Do we need to pay?”

“Nope, he has paid already,” the bartender replied, lowering his voice and using his huge frame to shield Sherlock from the gaze of other patrons, “But it seems we have a different kind of problem here John. I bet he can’t get up or even form a coherent sentence to ask for some help. I could ask my boys to help him but who wants to see the sheriff, the wonderful, handsome, dashing sheriff that everyone swears by, drunk and disorderly at a pub? It would damage his reputation in more ways than one and tomorrow he will be too embarrassed to even appear at the station.”

“Hmmm,” John demurred, “We can’t have that happening, can we?”

“Will you?”

“Yes, by all means. I live two houses down.”

“Wait, has he moved into that house?”

John sighed and raised his hands, elbow upwards, “Don’t ask me. He actually wanted to. The Mayor could have given him any house and his folks are wealthy, they apparently gifted a house to him already…..still he chooses to live there.”

“No idea why he would do something so silly,” the bartender said, shaking his head, “I don’t understand. That house is vicious and doesn’t leave anyone in peace. Remember what happened to the Eric lad? Still raving mad! Then there was this girl Louise, she threw herself down from the rooftop, fear freezing her face into that horrifying rictus! They were at least not living alone, this one lives alone there, eh?”

“Yes,” John said somberly, “But on the positive side, he will leave it soon. No family or individual has lived there for a day more than a month.”

He slung Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder and put his own arm around his waist. Sherlock gave him a blank, dazed stare, then started to sway wildly as he was helped to his feet. John winced as Sherlock’s entire weight descended on him but that didn’t deter him from his mission. “C’mon big guy,” he whispered, “Need to take you back. Ian, we will slip out the backdoor. Can you just help me with one thing. Get my carriage to the back alley, so I can get in the moment we are outside. Hey, Sherlock, sheriff, _Sheriff Holmes_, hear me please, I am going to take you to the toilet now. Just throw out a bit of the poison you stuffed yourself with and you’ll feel much better, I promise.”

“Nnnngggnnn,” was all that Sherlock managed to say. There was a small voice in his head which kept telling him to get his act together but the rest of him, especially his stomach and his legs, wouldn’t cooperate, not one bit.

He did throw up most of the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl as John patiently waited outside the booth. Once he was done, he leaned heavily against the wash basin and John helped him rinse his mouth and wash his hands and face. “Better?” He asked.

“B-Better….but I still don’ feel shoo good.”

“You need to sleep it off and pray the hangover doesn’t kill you tomorrow morning.”

“Yes….yeah….I….”

“Come, my carriage is waiting. Why did you do this to yourself, I wonder.”

“He….he won’t talk to me. I did s-something baaad…..” John made him pause by throwing him a startled look. “He who?”

Sherlock was about to blurt out the name when the remainder of his senses shut off his mouth. No, whatever he shared with Jim was his and only his privilege. No one else was supposed to know, not even a do-gooder like John who was clearly fond of him and wanted to help. Why else would he take care of a messy drunk, even stand two feet behind him as he puked his guts out. Clearing his throat, he hobbled alongside the shorter man, taking deep breaths. “No one,” he replied in a sad, wistful manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No JohnLock romantic angle here. Please expect John to play a part in this though! His feelings here are not returned but he is a true and loyal friend.


	3. The Good Neighbor and Jealous Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is back and he isn't happy. 
> 
> {{He wasn’t sure if it was the wind or it was a voice but he sure heard the words ‘Moron’ ‘Sonofabitch’ ‘Asshole’ and ‘Bastard’ over and over again. The expletives got worse and worse but at least the slamming and rattling and banging stopped}}

Sherlock woke up the next morning, or rather, _next noon_, feeling terrible. He had a dull ache in his head, a burn behind his eyelids, a parched throat and a terribly empty feeling in his stomach. Even opening his eyes in the darkened room, which he couldn’t recognize, was hard.

“Good afternoon sleepyhead,” John entered the room with a tray of food, water, coffee and some medicines, “Come on, try to sit up. I have a tonic for you, which will help with the hangover. Just drink it in small sips.”

Sherlock managed to drink the water first and, with his thirst quenched finally, he sighed out with relief. Then he drank the tonic, which looked like chalk dust mixed with water in a tequila shot glass. It tasted even more awful than it looked and he gagged and retched, covering his mouth, eyes wide in fear of soiling John’s sheets. But as quickly and suddenly the horrid churn in his stomach started, it also disappeared equally quickly, leaving him feeling a lot better than a few minutes ago. John grinned and took the small shot glass from Sherlock’s hands, “Some herbal medicine I made myself. It is by far the most popular one that I sell or prescribe, because there are no dearth of drunkards in our town, or the ones around us.”

“You-You make medicines?”

“I am a doctor. A surgeon in fact.”

“Oh…..”

“Hi, I am Dr. John Hamish Watson, do NOT call me Jack please. John is what I prefer.”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, call me Sherlock please.”

“Everybody knows you,” John said with a mile wide grin, “The young dynamic handsome and fearless sheriff and marshal, the only one of his kind to do both roles with equal panache. You are the one who got this entire area crime-free by imprisoning outlaws or killing them, driving out all the troublemakers and bringing civil crimes to the notice of the courts. You have been protecting the citizens and banks, the women and the old. You got several medals and awards for your bravery. You are a celebrity.”

Sherlock felt flattered and embarrassed at the same time. “I had no idea someone could stretch my credentials so much. Yes, I have a few neat achievements to my name and I am not one for _false modesty_, but even then…..whatever you just rattled off is a bit too much.”

“Nope. I think even this is _not enough_.”

Sherlock’s face dropped a bit. “I guess I gave you few reasons to respect me after my weird and impossible behavior last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if you think less of me this morning.”

John’s eyebrows shot up, “Excuse me?”

“I was shit faced last night, I threw up, and now I am in your house…..”

“Wait, stop, please,” John raised a hand to stop him and reached out with the other hand, gently placing it on Sherlock’s slumped shoulder, “Don’t assume so much and so wrong! I don’t think you did something _so bad_ that I’d lose respect for a perfectly amazing sheriff and marshal who has proved to be quite the savior of our town and people, someone who has the potential to be the chief inspector of this state one day. You just got drunk, which happens to all of us at some point or the other. But I do understand where you’re coming from! Unlike us you’re _never _off duty so anytime you have an extra peg or two, it will still reflect as a drunk lawkeeper. Just be assured that I am not someone who looks at things that way. Even superheroes need their own time and the freedom to mope over a broken relationship.”

Sherlock had just picked up the coffee, which he needed badly to get rid of the drowsiness. His hand shook as he heard the words and he nearly spilled some of the hot liquid on his lap. “What? I am sorry, what did you say? _Relationship?_” In his head he was wondering if he had babbled some nonsense the night before, maybe under the influence of the alcohol he had consumed. A bit wary already, he looked at John through huge eyes, hoping the man would say ‘Just kidding’.

“No one drinks himself to death alone,” John replied, “Unless they have a reason to forget someone or something.”

Sherlock felt an ache in his chest and sighed, “No, it’s nothing like that.”

“You did babble about someone not talking to you.”

“I did? I was drunk.”

“True drunks confess the truth, or at least get very close to it. I am assuming that’s the case with you. But I think I am being a bit too nosy. If it’s a private matter, I’ll leave you be. Come on, have some breakfast. Try the greasy things especially, they always work like a charm in curing a hangover. Soak up the grease and all.”

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of his coffee before biting into a slice of buttered toast. John took the empty water glass and the shot-glass in which he had got the tonic, and got up from the bed. Just as he was about to leave the room he heard Sherlock’s deep but sleep scratched voice call out to him. Trying not to give away how smitten he was and how adorable he found Sherlock in this half-asleep state, he turned and smiled, “Yes?”

“Thank you, Jawn.”

“No problem, that’s what friends and neighbors are for. Let’s meet again sometime, for a drink. This time we shall stick to three beers or two whiskies, no more, okay?”

Sherlock enthusiastically nodded and went back to his breakfast. John slowly walked out of the bedroom, cheek splitting grin on his face, and softly repeated, “Jawn…..”

***

The moment Sherlock had entered the house he knew something was seriously wrong. The house was cold, _freezing cold_, on top of that the broiler based central heating system in the basement wouldn’t work even if he did everything possible right to start it. He tried to see if a pipe was jammed, if the coals and wood were wet or damp, nope, thing wrong with the fuel or the broiler and the damn thing still did not work. As he went upstairs he saw the front door open. When he went to the bedroom, he saw his clothes had been strewn about. When he went to the loft the door almost slammed on his face.

Then he heard the noises downstairs. _Bam-Bam-Bam! Boom-Boom-Boom! Smack-Slap-Splat! Whack-Crash-Ding!_

“What the hell…..James,” Sherlock understood finally what was going on and rushed downstairs, seeing doors and windows slamming and opening, drawers and cabinet doors slapping and slamming and rattling on their hinges, thing flying out and landing randomly on the floor. As Sherlock rushed to the kitchen where maximum sounds were coming from, he was almost caught in the ribs by sharp knives. He ducked and fell backwards on his ass, gasping with shock, and finally deciding to call out to the ghost. “James, Jim, Jimmy please stop it, please, we can talk about this, I have no idea what I’d done to offend you but…..”

He wasn’t sure if it was the wind or it was a voice but he sure heard the words ‘Moron’ ‘Sonofabitch’ ‘Asshole’ and ‘Bastard’ over and over again. The expletives got worse and worse but at least the slamming and rattling and banging stopped.

“Shouldn’t I be angry that you chose to disappear?” Sherlock, feeling defiant suddenly, sat up.

A heavy object came flying at him and he lay back flat on the floor again with a thump, narrowly managing to save his own head from getting smashed in. _God, this is getting dangerous now, he is really mad at me and I’m doomed. Nope, not yet. I think he will agree to a five minute talk._

“What are you doing Jimmy? Killing me will solve the problem?”

“You spent the night with another man!”

Sherlock sat up, aghast, “No.”

“LIAR. LIARRRRR! I will turn you into cowboy boots.”

“Yes, do that by all means. But at least give me a chance to explain my actions first. I also think you should explain _your absence_ as well. Where were you? But first, can I _see_ you? I-I don’t know why but I want to have a look at you. It’s been seven days, sixteen hours and around thirty three minutes since I last saw you and-and I have….._missed you_.”

There was complete silence in the room, the house, the surroundings. As if a great restless force had suddenly decided to go still. Even then, it was unsettling, all this stillness, and Sherlock called out, “Jim?”

“WHAAAT?” The sound came just inches from his right ear and Sherlock jumped and fell back on his butt again, this time quite miffed with the way Jim was taking the piss out of him. But his anger, his annoyance and his wariness melted away as he saw the ghost right next to him, sitting on his knees. He was wearing a suit, dark olive in color, with a dark grey scarf wrapped around his neck instead of the usual tie. He looked so beautiful that Sherlock’s breath hitched and for a moment he forgot this was not a real flesh and blood person, but a ghost. He moved eagerly towards Jim and it was only after he saw the set of rapid blinks from the ghost that he realized what he was doing.

Determined to get Jim back on his side again, he decided to clear the air first. In a shaky voice, which was more due to the libidinous desire building in him than anything else, he said, “I….I didn’t spend the night with another man. Believe me, please.”

“You did. I can sort of understand.”

“No, you are getting it all wrong.”

“How?”

“I was very upset, depressed and lonely after you just disappeared on me and decided to have a drink. It was a quieter day at work so I hit the pub, ‘Ned’s Boat and Brew’ and had one drink too many. Ended up totally wasted and unable to get up from my barstool. The neighbor two houses down, he was there. He spotted me and helped me on my feet but I guess I passed out on the way. The next thing I remember is waking up twelve hours later, hungover and miserable, in an unfamiliar bed.”

Jim’s eyes seemed to widen slightly as he read into both Sherlock’s expressions and words. “You’re telling me the truth?” He asked. His voice was tight.

“Yes.”

“Who is this friendly neighbor who took you home? Not many people do that, unless they know you very well or have certain interests in you.”

Sherlock suppressed a grin. Jim was jealous! Gosh, he sounded jealous and that was too cute for words. He cleared his throat, “He is a doctor. A surgeon. He didn’t do anything to me, neither did I touch him for any other reason than to balance myself and keep myself on my feet. There is nothing I am hiding from you.”

“Such a good Samaritan,” Jim was sarcastic, “Which house does he live in?”

At first it seemed like an innocuous question and the sheriff was about to state the facts when something happened. Sherlock saw Jim float towards the window and hark out, expression fierce and laden with spite, wickedness. He immediately knew what was going on in the ghost’s mind and his concern for John’s wellbeing instantly flared up. “No, you are not going to do anything to him,” he said, standing up to his full height now, “If you do that, you are going to _let me down_. Try to understand, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about me, what they feel about me. The fact is, I am not attracted to them, am I? Look into my eyes Jim, tell me what you see in there.”

Jim floated closer and peered in.

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked.

“Myself.”

“And?”

“I look pretty weird, convex mirror effect.”

That broke the wall of uneasiness between them and both burst out laughing. Jim’s laughter was sparkling, refreshing, like a gushing brook in the mountains. It was at once uplifting and infectiously energetic. Sherlock suddenly started to feel like his _old self_ again. Gone was the depressed, lackluster mood he had fallen into. He just kept looking at Jim and the only thought in his head was ‘I did the best thing in the world to move in here’.

***

Another week passed and Sherlock worked hard during the days and returned home early to spend time with Jim. He was quite surprised at how eager Jim was for his company. He always saw him at the garden gate or front lawns or at the window, waiting for him to return.

It made him feel rather warm and fuzzy inside and he couldn’t stop smiling. He was smiling even as he faced a potentially life-threatening situation at the western edge of the town, trying to foil a bank robbery.

His deputy, an efficient and capable man named Victor Trevor who was two years older than him and also a good friend, noticed this but didn’t comment on it right away. Instead he waited till they had handled the situation, got the robbers thrown in jail, sorted out matters with the bank management and got some of those injured in cross fire into the local hospital. Once it was all done and dusted and Sherlock had wired the message of the encounter and arrests to the town’s mayor, the chief of police of their state and also a few more important people in authority positions, he broached the topic. “Are you in love?”

“What? What sort of a ridiculous question is that now?”

Sherlock knew he was snapping for the wrong reasons. Victor was merely asking a question and it was not too forward of him either, they _did discuss_ some private matters from time to time. But he also knew _why_ he was doing this? The moment the word ‘love’ had come up, he had gone defensive. No one would understand what he felt for Jim, nor would anyone believe him. They’d just think he had gone mad. So he had decided that offense was the best defense and simply barked back a question in response to a question. Victor didn’t seem to mind though and said with a small sideways tilt of his head, “I dunno, it seems you’re in an awfully good mood all of a sudden. If this is true I am very happy for you marshal, or should I call you Marsheriff. The townsfolk have started calling you by nicknames, either Marsheriff or ‘The Great Detective’.”

“I am just Sherlock,” Sherlock shrugged, “How is your woman?”

“Libby is fine. She wanted you to come home and have dinner with us one night.”

“No, she just wants me to move out of that house.”

“Libby’s cousin did live there a year ago and you know what happened to her. You can’t really blame her for worrying a bit, can you?”

Sherlock shook his head, “In her present condition she should not worry, least of all for me. I am doing fine, trust me on this……hey, don’t roll your eyes, what do you think I look like? Troubled, possessed, zombified, scared? No, instead I am grinning and in a good mood, as _you _just told me a few moments ago.”

“Okay fine chief, I believe you,” Victor said truthfully, “But _she won’t_. She knew you long before she even knew me, or I knew you. She was your classmate. She’s scared of that house. So please, if you don’t want her worried you should come over for dinner, perhaps tomorrow.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Yes, maybe he could have dinner with them. Libby was a good girl and, while she had never really been a _close_ friend of Sherlock’s, they did know each other from kindergarten days. The best way to allay her fears was to meet her and let her see first hand what a wonderful shape he was in. This would also dispel certain rumors about 212 Lincoln Falconer Street. He wanted people to think the house was not harmful anymore and things were better now.

“Good,” Victor said, “See you tomorrow.” Sherlock nodded. Well, he had to _ask_ Jim about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and light smut in the next chapter, then heavy angst coming up!


	4. Sex and a dinner invite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has no idea how he does this, but living with Jim's ghost is like a normal committed live-in relationship for him, one which has its usual pleasures and bickering.

Sherlock wondered for a moment if he should just make some excuse about work, some criminal on the loose or a sudden audit at the sheriff and marshal’s office, but he didn’t really think he could pull that off. Jim was a very intelligent man, the only one who could rival Sherlock’s brains and lying to him would only mean he’d lose his trust.

“Gotta tell him and hope he’s okay with it,” he murmured as he went home that evening, determined to stay cool even if Jim raved and ranted about it.

“WHY?” Hours later, Jim was nagging him like a wife would, in an old and established relationship where the partners knew each other too well. “Why do you need to go out for dinner, Mrs. Hudson cooks very delicious food at home, doesn’t she?” The whine continued while Sherlock simply lay and watched the ghost pacing about in the room, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was very cute to watch him like this, all riled and annoyed, jealousy and possessiveness dripping from every word, every gesture. “You told me you preferred to be alone, that alone protects you,” Jim argued, “How did all these friends spring up out of the blue huh?”

“I lost the most precious thing I had, even before I realized how precious it was,” Sherlock couldn’t help but feel sadness overwhelm him the moment he remembered their limited, but super-spirited and amazing time together during Jim’s lifetime.

That sadness transformed Jim and he flopped down on the bed, that activity causing a gust of wind to blow right on to the man’s face. “Fine, you go there, have dinner with your friends. But I am sure they will try to talk you into leaving this house and moving somewhere else and if you resist, they will bring up all kinds of gory events from the past and try to scare you.” With that he crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, looking even more adorable than before. Sherlock gave him a fond glance, then moved closer. He knew he couldn’t touch this ‘entity’ but somehow it made him feel better when he got closer to _his Jim_. He kept staring at the ghost, smiling away.

After a while Jim squirmed, “What?”

Sherlock only smiled broader. “Seriously, stop it.”

“Stop what? Looking at you? Why should I? It is my favorite pastime.”

“Then why do you want to spend the evening somewhere else? As it is I am lonely throughout the day. If your work detains you, I will cut you some slack. But how do you expect me to understand social commitments?”

“There won’t be many, I promise,” Sherlock said as he lay down, “Now come on, get rid of that suit and let me hold your hand.”

“You want me to sleep naked?”

Big brown eyes fixed him with an incredulous stare. Sherlock saw a blush on him, wondering how ghosts even managed that totally ‘humane reaction’. But then, he knew so little about the other world that he didn’t dare comment. “I would like that very much,” he answered truthfully, “If you don’t mind of course.”

“Then you do the same, you get rid of your clothes first,” Jim said with a naughty glint in his eyes. “I was expecting this,” Sherlock said and got up from the bed, feeling a bit awkward but determined to go through this. He had never had sex before, he had been largely asexual before he had set his eyes on Jim, and naturally the act of disrobing before a lover was like whipping himself naked in public. He had never imagined he would do something like this, _sex according to him was a wasteful exercise of the brain_, something that caused chemical imbalances in the body and made people do things they never thought they would. It _dumbed _men down and made women do _crazy_, stupid things.

Yet, the thought of sex with Jim had always intrigued him. Now, even though the man wasn’t even alive, he was already seeking approval from him about his body and sensuality. He hoped he didn’t disappoint Jim or make him laugh.

Slowly he started to peel off layers of his clothing. He unbuttoned his sleep shirt, taking out one arm, then the other, then sliding it off his back with a flourish. He dropped it on the bed and reached for the drawstrings on his pajama bottoms. He slowly tugged at the longer string, thereby untying the knot, before he shoved it down mid-thigh. Hesitating for a moment, he finally stepped out of it, one leg first then the other, then proceeded to neatly fold the two pieces of clothing and setting them down at the foot of the bed.

He was doing this deliberately. If he had nothing to do but stand there in his underclothes, his restless hands and embarrassed emotions would urge him to do something ungraceful and weird. Jim would _definitely_ laugh at that.

“All of them,” Jim said, piercing eyes focused on Sherlock’s face. There was no evidence of _any_ judgment there. Sherlock, an expert at profiling criminals and anticipating crimes and patterns within crimes, was suddenly at a loss. He had no clue what Jim was thinking.

He tugged down his underwear and _gasped_, closing his eyes in mortification.

Stripping in front of Jim’s observant eyes had aroused him. The moment he pulled off the last bit of his clothing, his impressive erection just bobbed free, releasing a musky, woody and spicy scent in the room. “Sorry,” he murmured, eyes still closed, “Sorry. I had no idea about…. _this._”

To his surprise, he heard Jim say, “Don’t be sorry for having such a sinfully delicious body my dear darling Sherlylocks!”

Sherlock opened his eyes with a snap. Then his mouth went completely dry. Jim was on all fours on the bed and naked. Yes, _naked_. His white limbs and slender body was exposed for Sherlock to _feast_ his eyes on. And his cock, that was some _pretty cock_. It was long and had medium girth, his balls were quite sizeable and well hung and his groin sported some well-trimmed and thin pubic hair that contrasted sharply with his pale and smooth skin.

“Thick and full and so hard,” Jim was salivating as he stared at Sherlock from top to toe, eyes returning to the groin to focus on the thatch of thick untamed downy mane there and the impressive twin jewels between his legs.

Sherlock’s skin flushed a soft pink but a huge weight had already lifted off his shoulders. Jim liked him, even naked he had still managed to hold the former criminal’s approval, and that in itself was a near orgasmic experience for the marshal. He knelt on the bed too, face to face with Jim as he half sat, half lay on the mattress, drool gathering in his mouth as he realized just how close he was to his prize. It had been a wet dream for him to see Jim naked, especially after having seen him _near-naked_ in the river, taking a dip. Conflicting reactions stormed Sherlock’s brain, one moment he felt that incident at the river was just yesterday’s events, the next moment it seemed like a _lifetime_ ago.

“Sher-Sherlock….!!”

“Hnnn…..Jimmy!!”

“Touch yourself.”

“Y-Yes. I-I can’t sleep unless I do this.”

“Let me talk to you _while you do it then_.”

_Thank God for small mercies, thank Heavens I can look at him and hear him while I touch myself_. Sherlock’s hand instantly flew to his engorged cock and he began to jerk off. At first it felt a bit rough, a little obstructive until he heard Jim hiss right into his ear ‘Spit into your palm, wet it’.

“Oh,” he said with an air of realization, doing just as Jim had said, spitting liberally on one palm and licking the fingers for extra lubrication. This time it felt smooth and oh-so-good, and he began to softly moan as pleasure started to build immediately in his loins.

“Such a depraved whore trapped inside the unsmiling, unshakeable, unyielding sheriff, the desperado marshal, the hero of the town,” Jim was writhing next to him, making odd little noises that went straight to Sherlock’s cock and made it jerk against his fingers. He began to fuck his own fist, thrusting into the tight grip, turning his face to stare hungrily down Jim’s naked beauty.

“Yesss, look at how you’re leaking already.”

“Oh fuck Jim!”

Jim went on murmuring obscenely hot things into his ear, like how aroused he was, what a sexy bitch he was, how easily he was going to spill himself, how lickable his cock was and how he longed to put his mouth on to it. At the same time Jim’s naked body was imprinted in his eyes, the very sight of it so sexy and so alluring, that Sherlock knew he was not going to last too long. Never before had masturbation felt so amazing, so welcome, never before had he been so desperate for his release. He began to fondle his balls with his free hand while he jerked off with the other, pushing himself closer and closer to the edge, until he heard a high pitched cry from Jim and immediately his orgasm crashed down upon him like a typhoon upon a ship.

“Fuccccckkkkk!”

He spurted all over himself, the sheets and even got a shot to his ear, shocking himself with the force with which he had just climaxed. Gosh, if self-pleasuring was so good, how damned amazing would sex with Jim Moriarty have been! His mind buzzed endlessly with scenarios from the six months he knew Jim before the latter killed himself, and found himself despairing that he had waited that long. Maybe if he had gotten intimate with Jim sooner, if he had tried to help…..Jim would still be alive.

“Sherlock, Sherly?”

Sherlock opened his eyes with some difficult. Coming back to the present was hard, despite the remnants of pleasure still buzzing throughout his body.

“Good,” Jim grinned, “I thought you had knocked yourself out.”

“I almost did,” Sherlock murmured, eyes half closed again. He felt so sweetly sleepy. Insomnia was no longer bothering him, at least not after moving to this house. “It was great, amazing, it was the best time of my life,” he added, struggling to stay awake. He wanted to figure out if his orgasm had somehow impacted Jim, if as a ghost he could still feel pleasure, if he could experience the thrill of a climax. But his eyes kept closing and he couldn’t really speak.

Weakly he reached for the neatly folded pajamas and wiped himself down. Then he tossed them somewhere on the floor without a second thought.

He heard Jim laugh and say, ‘So much for being neat and tidy’. He smiled in his sleepy haze and answered, ‘It is all your fault for wearing me out.’

Jim started humming a tune. It was soothing, lulling, strangely familiar and at the same time something new and refreshing, something that spoke of new beginnings and adventures, a phase of his life he _gladly_ welcomed. Sherlock heaved a sigh of happiness and curled up around Jim’s ‘image’ next to him, never mind the fact that he didn’t ‘feel’ as solid as a human form would. It still made the young sheriff feel assured that he was not alone, that he had someone to share his empty bed and lonely life with.

The humming kept getting softer and softer, Jim was now smoothing the sweat damp tendrils back from his face and it felt so cozy, _caring_ and intimate. Sherlock didn’t resist the call of slumber this time. He went off to sleep with a soft smile still curling the corners of his mouth.

***

Libby had spared no efforts at the dinner she had cooked, nor had Victor gone miserly on the selection of whiskies and beers he’d purchased to entertain his boss and friend. Sherlock was charmed by their friendliness, hospitality and just how happy they were to have him over for dinner that night. Even Mrs. Hudson was thrilled that Sherlock was going out for something other than work and had ironed his shirt and brushed down his hat and coat with plenty of enthusiasm and joy. But pleased and grateful as he was for the dinner and company and Mrs. Hudson’s efforts to send him off really well-dressed, Sherlock’s heart was still stuck to the house where he knew Jim waited for him.

“Have some more of the braised quail,” Libby insisted, swollen with child but still quite nimble and energetic, “Victor, refill his glass.”

  
“Just water, not whiskey,” Sherlock said quickly, stopping both husband and wife from piling on anything more on his plate or in his glass, “And Libby, I am quite good here. I have eaten enough, one more bite and I will not enjoy it any longer. You know me for a long time, I was never very eager on food and drinks. In fact there was a time when I had made it a point to survive the day on three cups of tea, twelve glasses of water and just one meal in the mid-morning hours. As compared to that I have been eating at least two meals a day and I have even cut down on my smoking.”

_All because of Jim. I love the way he sniffs at my food and seems to draw nourishment from it, I adore the way he insists I should not smoke so much that being close to him makes him smell like a bag of tobacco. Had he not been around I would have continued to punish myself with my old habits and routine, regardless of the consequences. I want to live long, healthy and happy now, with him by my side. _

“Hmmm, I wonder what’s the reason behind the change,” she said, lowering her brows at the faraway look in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I vouch for the smoking part,” Victor said, “Sherlock has cut it down by 50% at least.”

“And you eat two meals?”

“Breakfast and dinner. Sometimes I nibble on cookies in the afternoon.”

“Sherlock, are you in _love_?”

“What? Now where did _that _come from?”

Even Victor seemed quite taken aback at that statement. He flashed a look of surprise at his wife while Sherlock was immediately defensive. “If I had the _time_ to court someone, your husband would have been the first to know. He is with me all the time while I am at work, and I am mostly at work, and when I am not working I am either at home reading or I grab a quick drink at a pub or visit the library to pick up some books. My dear friend, believe it or not, there is really no time or place in my life for romance…..” he paused, then added a grain of truth to the lie he had just formed, “Except my house. I am romancing _my new house_. Imagine, a house worth at least half a thousand, all mine for free.”

“About the house,” she said, sounding vaguely uncomfortable, “How are you doing there?”

“I am doing_ fine_ there,” Sherlock laughed, to make it sound like a joke than out of _real_ humor, “I’ve been living alone for seven years. This isn’t the first month of a bachelor’s life for me.”

“It’s not about your bachelor life. It’s about that house.”

“I see no problem with it.”

“People, _several_ of them, have been affected rather adversely and sometimes fatally by that house. One old man fell off the first floor and died. One jumped off the rooftop. One got burned in the kitchen, so bad that the poor old woman died of her burn wounds a week later. Two lost their minds, one recovered from a five day unconsciousness but never spoke again.”

“I am aware.”

“Still…..”

“I find nothing wrong with the house. It warms me and cools me as I need, nurtures me when I am tired, is the silent companion I need when I want my solitude and it waits for me, like a loved one, when I return home from work. It is my life, my family, my love and what are we all like when someone tells us something disparaging about our family? I bet _you’d be upset too_, if I told you Victor isn’t the right guy for you because he works his ass off and doesn’t spend too much time at home.”

“Libby,” Victor warned, “Sherlock knows what he is doing.”

She didn’t seem to be offended. Instead she switched topics swiftly. “By the way, a little bird told me you were seen leaving the good doctor’s house one morning,” she was grinning. “_Hungover, slept-over, rolled-over_. If there’s love in the air, please do take deep breaths in.”


	5. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just look at him now, do you see what that ghost has done to him?”
> 
> SORRY ABOUT THE ANGST

Sherlock had once heard a grand aunt, a known naysayer in the family, say that sometimes things happened because someone really believed they would happen. So far Sherlock had taken that statement with a twist of positivity, like if he wanted a criminal to be caught, he would _eventually _succeed in catching him and either bring him down or bring him to justice. But as the events unfolded, the very next morning, he knew there was a dark truth to that statement.

As he lay on the gurney hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness, his vision dazed and fading, his fingers twitching at his sides and his soul burning at the sight of Jim running beside him, invisible to the nurses and doctors and John himself. God, he looked so small and so very sad.

Soon they were joined by Mrs. Hudson, Victor, Libby and the mayor of the town, by the name Greg Lestrade. Greg had no reason to be there, but Sherlock had heard rumors that he was involved with his elder brother Mycroft, so he was perhaps here to show some concern and support. Even in his weakened, fading state, Sherlock wondered if Mycroft was really going to make an honest man out of this fool, or would he have fun and move on? A sudden pinching pain to the back of his neck made him almost close his eyes when John barked, “Stay with me Sherlock, please, you need to stay with me. You will be fine, you’ll be all right, there is nothing to worry really, yeah, there is nothing.”

_Idiot_, Sherlock thought, his very tone suggested there was something to worry after all. John sounded _frightened_.

“What….what happened?” He heard Mrs. Hudson asked, “How….?”

_Her voice was distant, as if she was a mile away._ Sherlock knew he was slipping into unconsciousness. Darkness all too overwhelming was clouding around him slowly. He could not fight it off anymore, he felt near compelled to surrender to that.

Suddenly a few words made him struggle and stay awake.

“I told him, I told him repeatedly not to stay in that haunted, miserable, unlucky house,” Libby was crying openly now, stumbling and blinking as they wheeled Sherlock towards the operating room, “But he wouldn’t listen to me. He said the house was his love, life and family. How can a house as eerie and cruel as this one be family? Even my husband shushed me last night while I tried to warn Sherlock. Just look at him now, do you see what that ghost has done to him?”

“NO,” Jim shouted, a shout only Sherlock heard, “No, tell them it’s _not true_, I haven’t tried to harm you Sherly, I never _would,_ I never _could_. You know that, don’t you? You have to tell them. Don’t you dare die on me and leave me alone again, no, please no!”

“J…..immm,” Sherlock whispered, barely audible. John lowered his head to listen and Sherlock thought he had repeated the words, but he was not sure. He was now rapidly sinking into the darkness which had been insistently pursuing him since his accident.

The last words he heard were John’s. “He needs to be treated right away and I will try my best to stem the blood flow from the wound and seal it up. We might need to supply him with some additional blood too, he has lost too much already and is very weak. If he doesn’t wake up in twenty four hours, he might slip into a coma.”

***

Twelve hours earlier Sherlock had returned home after the lovely evening with Libby and Victor, _eager to see Jim_. He had spotted Jim in the garden, sitting all by himself, forlorn and lost and sad. For a second he had seemed so real that hope had flared up in Sherlock’s heart, but the moment he had stepped closer and seen how a falling leaf went straight through the ghost’s apparently solid frame, his hopes had waned and his spirit had dampened. Not wishing to greet Jim with a long face and pensive expression, he had decided to be playful and naughty, masking his feelings with a coat of humor thrown over them.

He snuck up carefully behind Jim and jumped out with a flourish of his long arms and shouted at the top of his deep voice. ‘Boo’!!!

Jim shrieked and jumped _three feet_ in the air, then screeched ‘Confounded human’ before thumping down on the garden bench, hard. Well, as hard as a ghostly form could anyways. Sherlock was so delighted by the reaction that he roared with laughter, loud chuckles and bubbly giggles coming out of him till his sides hurt and he was rolling on the grass. Jim stared down at him, at first his gaze contemptuous, but then he soon started to laugh too. A few minutes later, as Sherlock sat up panting ‘Oooooh, stop me, _stop me_ Jimmy, I can’t breathe’, Jim was also laughing animatedly by then.

“You’ll pay for this,” the ghost said. It was supposed to be a grumble but it came out with a giggle of some sort.

“Like how?” Sherlock waggled his brows.

“Hmmmm, I won’t talk dirty to you as you touch yourself tonight.”

That mere thought of jerking off with Jim next to him was enough to give him a half-hard thing in his pants. He said dramatically, “Ohhhhfuckkk, nooooo!”

“Nope, my mind is made up.”

“Change it.”

“Nope, not in your dreams,” Jim got up and wafted towards the house, throwing sneaky glances over his shoulder at the pursuing sheriff, “If you want me to change my mind, then make me do that. I won’t do it on my own, no sir, no way Jose!”

“Is that a challenge?” Sherlock asked, getting into the house and rushing upstairs, shedding clothes the moment he was in the bedroom, “I can truly ‘rise’ to the occasion and act on any challenge thrown my way so beware Mr. Moriarty!”

In less than half hour Jim had learned his lessons, all _three_ of them. Number one - Never underestimate Sherlock’s sensuality and seductiveness, even if he had been a blushing virgin all his life he was a fast learner and a serious test on any man’s testosterone levels. Number two – Never throw a challenge at him because Sherlock was a competitive creature by nature, he hated to lose or be proved a failure, even if it was a good-natured, _harmless_ bet. Three – His own feelings for Sherlock were so intense and his desire hadn’t faded even a wee bit since his death, leaving him still open and vulnerable to the lawman’s charms and shameless display of _nude magnificence_.

Sherlock played with his hole, three Vaseline coated fingers inside it, while he used a scented oil on his other hand and stroked his excited cock languorously, as if it took him supreme effort to touch himself in such a dirty, hot manner. One moment he pushed down on his fingers, the other moment he was thrusting up into his own fist. His eyes remained on Jim who was struggling to maintain his composure as he watched Sherlock through those lovely doe eyes.

“Sexy bitch,” Jim hissed, “I had no idea there was such a depraved slut inside the puritan and repressed marshal I encountered two and half years ago.”

“Kiss me Jim,” Sherlock moaned.

“Sh’lock…”

“P-Please….lemme feel you, in some way!”

“Stop it, I am not giving in.”

“I wish that it was your cock filling me up, not my fingers, I’d be so stretched….”

“FUCK.”

“I’d come so hard on your cock. But I know you’d not be so _easy_ to please, so I’d gladly have sucked you off later! Now imagine me sucking you off, on my knees. Yes, only I would have known how to suck your cock and only you could have brought me down to my knees.”

“Sherlock, yes, I’d love to have explored that tight ass,” Jim burst out with all his wishful fantasies, leaning over Sherlock and dragging his mouth over his naked chest and abs, touches that Sherlock, rather surprisingly, felt in a small way. It doubled his arousal and his hand sped up on his engorged cock, his mouth open like a goldfish and sucking in harsh breaths. He was very close, _too close_ in fact. “I’d love to suck you off too, maybe we could do that to each other at the same time, imagine my lips stretched around your cock!”

“HOLY HELL!!”

Sherlock yelled out with the full force of his lungs as a _spectacular_, bone-melting orgasm washed over him in enormous waves. It started with tremors in his stomach and his toes curling, then became a near seizure like shudder, before his back bowed off the mattress and massive shots of creamy cum flew out of his cock and landed all over his belly, hand, chest, neck and even one of his cheeks. The bed rattled and shook from his movements, then the headboard thumped against the wall as he fell back against the mattress, totally drained but also extremely satisfied. He had never felt so good, so awesomely sated before and even without cleaning himself up or bothering to turn out the lights, he fell asleep within seconds.

He woke up at dawn, found Jim sleeping peacefully next to him, in nothing but his underwear. Jim could somehow do this, make his clothes appear and disappear, change them, Sherlock had stopped asking how that was possible. If it was possible to cohabit with a ghost and fall in love with him, then anything else in this world was surely possible.

Sherlock remembered his dad’s words to him and Mycroft when they were young. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true’. Nothing screamed ‘probable’ more than this moment, these feelings and this strangely alluring man/specter in his bed. Their faces were only inches apart and Sherlock smiled with unbridled joy as he basked in the intimacy.

Well, ghosts _do_ sleep, but none so cutely as _this_ one. Of that Sherlock was sure, because Jim was just amazingly fresh-faced, adorable and sexy even after his death. Sherlock had realized a long time ago that he had fallen in love with Jim at first sight, many days ago. It had taken him some time to accept his feelings, but they had been _there_ from day one. That face! He had fallen for Jim despite him being a notorious and feared criminal at that time.

Blissful sigh leaving him, he stared down his body, only to discover that Jim had cleaned him up and covered him as he slept. Not only did that keep him warm on a chilly late fall night, it also warmed the very cockles of his heart. The love and affection he felt for Jim was warm and gratifying to the deepest of his senses and, awash in that very emotion, he fell back to sleep shortly.

The next time he awoke, he was alone in bed and the room.

Feeling that unsettling pang of loss in his chest after such an intense night and amazing early hours, Sherlock called out loudly, “James, Jim, Jim-Jim, Jimmy, don’t do this. Come here, I miss you baby!”

No response came.

Huffing out an annoyed breath, Sherlock got out of the bed and quickly used the bathroom before emerging in a pair of underpants and undershirt, his bed hairs so puffy that it looked like a hedgehog had crawled up and settled on his head.

“That ghost is so annoying sometimes, he knows I hate waking up alone,” the young sheriff/marshal muttered as he tried to finger comb the dark curls back into some shape. He needed coffee, he needed to brush his teeth, but first he needed to find his Jim. “James Isaac Moriarty, quit your hide and seek game and get your ass back here right now,” he said, peering out of the doorway of the bedroom, “This is not an ask, this is an order, hear me? I am a bit clingy this morning. Think I’ll send word to the station that I might be a bit late in reporting for work. Oh damn, I am already late Jimmy, I mean……look at the time, it is almost nine in the morning already. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He stepped across the landing and walked towards the stairwell, where he stood just next to the bannister. The house seemed so still, so silent, so unbelievably inanimate. Panic rose within him immediately. Had he done something to offend Jim? Had Jim left him? No, no, no, that was not possible, Jim would never leave him. He was loved by the ghost as much as he loved him back. Jim couldn’t abandon him, not again!

“BOO!!!”

The sudden jump-scare and shock made him take a hurried step backwards and since he was a tall man and the bannister was beneath his waist, most of his upper torso pitched backwards right over it. Sherlock’s arms flailed as his eyes filled with fear. He had lost his balance and there was _nothing_ for him to hold on to in order to arrest his fall.

“J-Jim…..”

Jim’s face swam before him and the ghost looked just as scared as Sherlock was, to see what he had inadvertently managed to do. Immediately he extended a hand towards Sherlock to grab him but his hand passed right through Sherlock’s, connecting to nothing, unable to anchor him.

“Nooooooo…….Sherrrlyyyy!”

Jim screamed out his name as Sherlock fell all the way downstairs, hitting his shoulder first and then the side of his head. Fortunately he had also hit a top of a cabinet with his leg, on his way down, so the fall was not severe. Still, it was enough to be bloody, painful and knock him out.

For some reason, Sherlock found he was _not afraid to die_.

***

The light was too strong, it made him close his barely open eyes again. There was a dull throb behind his closed eyelids. He couldn’t feel his legs. His shoulder on one side was immobile, the other side was sore. He had no idea where he was!

Had he been beaten up? Had some outlaw managed to escape and come back to extract revenge? Jim, where was _Jim_?

He heard voices and then a hard pinch to his side made him wince and blindly reach out to strike whoever the culprit was. This time he heard a louder voice, close to his ears. “Yeah, he is fine, he’s coming around, he’s with us. See how he responded, like a true sheriff should. Tried to hit me.” Then he thought he heard a few claps and then someone crying, some woman probably. A bit of relief washed over him as he realized he was not in the midst of trouble with criminals holding him captive but with people who were evidently waiting for him to recover. That was good! He wanted to guess who they were but all he could think of was Jim. Jim didn’t know he was injured. Jim had no idea where he was. How was he going to tell Jim he wasn’t coming home that night?

“J-Ja….mes!”

“What are you saying Sherlock?”

“J-i-mm-y.”

“You need to try open your eyes. Please.”

Sherlock dreaded that but tried anyways. He was a marshal and sheriff, the only one of his kind who held two posts at one go, he was a braveheart and a hero, no way was he going to show his weaker side, even if that meant getting that stinging pain back the moment he was exposed to light. With a deep breath, that hurt him in various places as his chest expanded, Sherlock slowly blinked and blinked until he opened his eyes.

The pain came but subsided just as quickly.

The room blearily came into focus and one by one he recognized those who were around the bed, looking down at him anxiously. Mrs. Hudson, who was still crying. Next to her was a teary eyed Libby. Next to her was Victor, looking anxious but also happy. Then there were Mycroft and Greg Lestrade, oh God, this had to be serious or else Mycroft wouldn’t be there. Finally there was John, Doctor John Watson. There was also a junior doctor, maybe an intern who helped John, and two nurses.

_No Jim_. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the entire room, even the ceiling, hoping to catch a glimpse of the specter. But he was nowhere. That was the moment Sherlock knew his life, despite everything else in it, including his work, was meaningless without his Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um...….Boo?


	6. Return of the Resident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns home but can we reconcile with the guilt-laden, self-pitying ghost so easily. 
> 
> Meanwhile someone is watching Sherlock.

“I-I-I need t’…..”

“You must be thirsty,” John said, signaling at the nurses.

They helped raise the bed a little so Sherlock’s head was in an elevated position, enabling him to drink some water. A cup of cool liquid was held to his dry, chapped lips and John warned him to take small sips and drain the entire cup. “Big gulps will bring it all back, you’re filled up with morphia, you’ll be nauseous if you eat solids or drink too quickly. Otherwise you’re fine Sherlock.” A chorus of ‘Thank God’ and ‘I feel so relieved’ and ‘I need to inform mummy now’ etc came to his ears. But Sherlock remained strangely detached as he drank the water, which felt like life’s only source right now, cool and so delicious. His head was filled with thoughts about Jim.

“_Brother mine_,” Mycroft pulled a chair and sat down next to him, “You must be having a thousand question, running through your mind, so allow me to answer at least some of them.” He spoke in a quiet voice, mindful of Sherlock’s condition, and Sherlock wondered how seriously and grievously injured he had been for the normally staid and indifferent Mycroft to look so worried. He found out soon enough as the elder Holmes sibling described the situation, he had a dislocated shoulder and a gash on one leg, but the main injury was the one on his head. Fortunately there was no internal bleeding and no other permanent damages. The concussion was also on the mend and he had been given about ten stitches to seal the wound.

“H-How long….hav’ I….?” He felt a bit breathless and stopped.

John understood the question nonetheless and answered him, “Three whole days and nights. When you didn’t come around in twenty-four hours, we summoned a doctor, Dr. Stamford, from the city hospital. He told us to give it two more days. You were in a near coma. It’s quite a miracle Sherlock, the fall you had was nasty and had you landed on your neck or directly on your head, it would have been fatal.”

“Ah, but why talk about something that didn’t happen,” Greg said cheerfully, “He is out of danger now, that’s what’s important.”

“True.”

“We have you to thank for that, Dr. Watson.”

“John, call me John please. And I did nothing special really, just my job and duty as a surgeon and friend. He was _lucky_ he pulled through. He was brought here on time, thanks to Mrs. Hudson arriving for work within minutes of the accident, I guess.”

“Acci-dent?” Sherlock asked. He simply couldn’t remember.

Victor looked a bit panicky at that. Even as Libby tried to hold him back, he stepped forward and addressed the doctor. “John, he says he can’t….remember. But-But….You said there was no permanent damage at all. Why doesn’t he remember?”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, he is fine, this is very normal,” John explained, “I am sure he remembers everything, just not the events that led to his accident. That is a very common thing, especially with any kind of head injury and unconsciousness.”

He began to ask Sherlock various questions, from his name and age, his work and his address, his childhood details and education, and the names of his parents and other family members. He waited patiently as Sherlock gave halting but correct answers, sipping more water in between from the cup, which Mrs. Hudson held for him this time. Then John asked him about some of the important events of his life and Sherlock was able to answer those as well. Finally he asked Sherlock to identify all those who were present in the room and when the injured man did that successfully, Victor let out a breath he was holding in and crossed himself. “Thank God,” he said, looking radiant once again, “Oh God, thank you, thank you so much!”

“See,” John said, “He’s doing fine. Yes, the last thing he remembers is waking up and padding to the bathroom, but I am sure it will come back to him later. He will remember how the accident happened that morning.”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, feeling a strong need to assure everyone. He was a bit embarrassed by their concern and presence. He was just not used to this. What he left unsaid was that he planned to _ask Jim how it happened_. Bits and pieces were coming back to him but not all of it.

“It was no accident,” Libby commented. She sounded angry.

“Libby no,” Victor warned her.

“No, let her speak,” Mycroft stopped the deputy sheriff, “Libby, what did you say?”

“Mycroft please, get him out of that house,” she implored, thoroughly ignoring Sherlock who was restless now, upset at hearing her words, “It was not an accident. Are you all blind? Don’t you know about that house, what it does to its inhabitants? Sherlock has been there for close to a month and that’s the maximum time anyone has lasted there. People had committed suicide, they have been involved in accidents, inexplicable episodes have happened which left people in shocked silence. This was an attempt to end his life. It’s that ghost, or ghosts, or whatever it is that claims the house as their own.”

“Libby, I have known you since you were a child,” Mycroft said, looking vaguely disturbed even though he tried hard to maintain the mask on his face, “I know you mean well. But you don’t suppose I will believe all this, do you?”

“Mike,” Greg Lestrade stepped forward, “Maybe she is right. Even I don’t believe in ghosts but some houses do possess a darkness, a negative energy, which can adversely affect the residents. Sherlock lives alone there. Maybe it’s not a good idea after all. Sherlock, you can live with me, or with your brother, or even with John if you so prefer. I will give you a different house, okay? This one will be….maybe we shouldn’t even put it on the market anymore. We will just raze it…….”

_That was when Sherlock had the meltdown. _

He thrashed about, making noises of distress and trying to get out of bed, his face red with some untold emotion, knocking off the IV, the cup and a few other bottles of medicine from the nightstand. Everyone gasped and the nurses tried to hold him down, as did Victor and Mycroft, while John rushed out to call some orderlies and also ask for a shot. “He needs to be sedated. Don’t worry, he will be fine, he’s just irked by something. Please, if you need to talk about anything, anything at all, do it outside the room. The patient is in a very vulnerable state, he’s weak and not in the best situation to be part of such conversations, and he cannot be disturbed like this.”

“Sorry, apologies,” Greg said immediately.

“Let’s allow him to rest,” Libby said, tugging at her husband’s arm.

Everyone left as John injected the restrained Sherlock with a sedating drug. Mrs. Hudson refused to leave and stayed by his side as the young man finally calmed down and was released by the orderlies, intern and nurses. Bringing her mouth close to his ear she kept talking softly, soothingly, telling him how the house was sunny and well-aired, that the flowers were blossoming despite the weather, the autumn colors in the garden, the fresh fruits she always kept on the dining table, etc.

Sherlock could close his eyes and see the house, the curtains billowing in the breeze, his Jim standing there with his back turned towards him, admiring the garden and saying ‘Next summer, I want rose bushes there, over there, that spot’.

Sherlock smiled as he started to pass out under the effects of the drug. He didn’t notice the pensive doctor holding his hand throughout, as if he would never let go. All he thought about at that point was the house and the soul he loved.

_Jim._

Sherlock couldn’t wait to go home.

***

Sherlock was discharged after two weeks, his left shoulder still in a cast and a slight limp in his right leg, but other than that he was fine. The scar on his forehead was easily covered by the thick unruly mop of curly dark brown hairs and aside from a slight paleness to his complexion, mainly because he had spent two and half weeks indoors, there was nothing else visible on him which would speak of the accident.

Despite subtle warnings and bribed attempts to keep him away, he headed straight for the house. _212 Lincoln Falconer street_. “I’ll be fine Hudders,” he told his housekeeper the moment he stepped in and found her waiting for him, “You can leave now. You have looked after the house and garden well, I have no complaints at all.”

She seemed a bit reluctant to leave him alone but obeyed his wishes. Probably she didn’t want to upset him. “Don’t thank me for this my dear Sherlock,” she spoke in her trademark affectionate tone, handing him strawberry milkshake in a tumbler the size of a small bathtub, “I am merely doing my work, son! I have cooked lunch and dinner both, and left them on the stove. There is some spaghetti with meatballs for lunch and for dinner I made your favorite dish, the Chinese one that you prefer. Rice and vegetables and egg, with the five spice powder, the star anise and those fresh scallions that I got from the garden. I am sure you’ll like home cooked food after weeks of the sodding mess that they served in the name of meals there.”

“Hospital food is a good way to appreciate _any meal_ available outside,” Sherlock replied with a forced smile, “But you are a good cook, you’ve always been a very good cook, so I am sure it will be amazing and I’ll enjoy it, regardless of the atrocity I had to swallow three times a day.”

“Good to see your sense of humor is back. Please don’t forget to eat.”

“Won’t.”

“I will be back tomorrow, or do you want me to drop by in the evening?”

“No. Tomorrow is fine. Goodbye Mrs. Hudson.”

For a second it appeared as if she was going to say something else but then she decided not to. With a smile and a nod she walked out of the door, closing it behind herself. Sherlock, who was just waiting for this moment, shot up from the couch and bolted the door from inside. Then he looked around, his face crumpling completely. Two and half weeks, he hadn’t seen him for such a long time.

“Jimmy, please. I know you’re here.”

The silence was so long that he started wondering if the ghost had actually left, when the familiar voice came from somewhere in the kitchen. “I wish I wasn’t,” was the reply. But it was not the words but the sad, almost depressed tone that set off alarm bells in Sherlock’s head.

“Jimmy….ouch!”

He had got up a bit too quickly and put weight on the wrong foot, _all of his weight_, and that led to a sudden pain shooting right up to his hip and causing the wail to tumble out of his mouth. It was not intentional at all but it did bring out the right results. He felt a sharp gust of air hit him and the next moment Jim was right there, within inches of him, looking concerned.

“What did you do to yourself now, what happened, are you hurt again, what was the hurry in rushing back to the house?” The ghost asked, anger taking over as he checked Sherlock thoroughly for any signs of injuries, aggravated or subtle, before stepping back to study his face. “You’re laughing?” He asked sharply, eyes wide. He looked unearthly gorgeous, in his dark pants and the white shirt he wore, feet bare, hairs sticking out at odd angles. Sherlock kept laughing nonetheless, drinking in that sight. He had missed Jim so very much, he had been so miserable, that he couldn’t believe how joyous and light he felt, as if a hundred pound weight had been lifted off his shoulders and chest.

“You-You’re still here….” he reached out and tried to touch Jim’s face.

_Jim jerked his head back. _

Sherlock’s hand dropped, the rejection registering on his face instantly. He felt a lump at his throat but he was used to a daily dose of ‘Boys don’t cry’ during his younger years, so the tears refused to fall. Still, the crying was deep within him, sobs that were just threatening to spill out. “Don’t do this to me Jimmy,” he said brokenly, “I have had a rough time, being injured and constantly questioned about the house, not seeing you. I need you, please.”

His tone and expression seemed to placate Jim who stepped forward and gave him a ‘hug’. Sherlock had no idea if it was psychological or not, but he seemed to feel it. It was very fleeting, blink and miss kinds, but he still felt some form of contact as the ‘hugged’.

“Better?” Jim asked.

“Much,” Sherlock answered, breathing deeply. He did feel better. Jim was a magical creature all right, he could turn Sherlock’s life around, switch off and switch on various moods in the man, just by being there.

“I did consider leaving, you know.”

“Now I do. But why? Do you like torturing me?”

“Torture is not me _leaving_. Torture and injustice and travesty is the way you almost got killed due to my _stupid_ move. I wanted to scare you like you scared me the evening before, at the garden, but I bloody well forgot that we aren’t the same. You’re flesh and blood, I am just air. Nothing can happen to me now, _no more am I prone to injuries or illness_, but you could get injured easily and-and the trouble is, the _misfortune_ is….. I wouldn’t be able to do anything to prevent it, as you must remember from that…..”

“Shhhh. I do remember, the memories came back slowly. It was sheer bad luck I was standing at the top of the stairs. Had I been anywhere else none of this would have happened. Please baby, don’t blame yourself! My Jimmy, my love, don’t you dare leave me. If you ever do, I will kill myself, remember that. I will just _end _my life, period.”

“No,” Jim had the same panicky look on his face which Sherlock had when he had thought he was abandoned, “No, you will do no such thing. I won’t go, I never will, not till you want me to, please-please never tell me something so hurtful again. I can’t stand losing you, please don’t say that again you stupid fucking moron or I will kill you with my bare hands.” He suddenly grew very angry, “I can do that you know, I can kill people if I want. My body might be no longer with me but my soul is the center of my prowess and it’s still here, I am still here. If you dare to do anything to yourself, I will….I will……” He fell silent, as if that anger which had built like wildfire had been totally doused and equally suddenly.

“Shhhh, calm down, my sweet,” Sherlock said, placating him with a smile, “I promise I won’t. There is no one in my life I value more than you, so killing someone else to teach me a lesson won’t work. The only thing that will work in favor of us sticking together is if you stop these disappearing acts. The moment my eyes opened I was looking for you, love. Everyone was there, my deputy, my friend, Mrs. Hudson, my brother, John, but I was only looking for you.”

“They blamed _me_,” Jim said in a small voice, “Worst thing was…I realized they were not wrong.”

Sherlock threaded his hands through Jim’s hairs, feeling nothing but air but a strange fallacy overcoming his senses as if he was really touching those soft locks. Whatever this was, it felt so good that he continued, stroking the non-tangible hair and face until Jim calmed down a bit.

“They were wrong. You might have been a _trigger_ for that accident but it was unintentional, it was truly an accident and nothing more. There were _no _malicious factors at work.”

“I wanted to tell you, I never intentionally killed anyone else here either. I just let them see me and whatever happened next was just….their reactions. One jumped off in fright, one accidentally set her clothes on fire and burned herself, one fell down the stairs and……”

“It’s all in the past. But from now on, no harming any innocent person. No one should see you but me, all right?”

Jim nodded. For a while a peaceful, soothing, sublime silence prevailed in the sitting room, man and ghost just staring at each other and trying to believe this was still there, that Sherlock was back and Jim was here too. They were together, after weeks apart.

_None of them saw John Watson watching them through one of the open windows, slack-jawed._


	7. In love with a Specter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John investigates
> 
> He hadn’t heard the words but he did read the sheriff’s lips. He had been repeatedly addressing someone invisible as ‘Jim’.

“How did Jim Moriarty die?”

Libby, who had befriended John during her frequent visits to the hospital to see Sherlock, didn’t bat even an eyelid at the question. Since her friend was the town’s sheriff and marshal and her husband his deputy, she was often asked questions about criminals and their encounters with the law. She enjoyed narrating the tales.

Handing him a cup of tea, she sat down next to him. Pregnancy had slowly started to make her movements sluggish and she felt better taking short pauses to put her feet up between the chores and errands she needed to run. “James Isaac Moriarty, scientist and mathematician extraordinaire, a man who could have easily been the next Galileo, Newton or the modern day Aristotle, a brilliant man who unfortunately had a dark side. He was rich, he was powerful, according to Sherlock he was a spider whose tentacles spread far and wide. He was into organized crime and protected those who worked for him, he manipulated powerful politicians, businessmen and bankers, he was a terror unleashed despite his tender age.”

“Is it true he was only Sherlock’s age?”

“Twenty six when he died. Yes, same age.”

“How did someone so potent and powerful die? Did Sherlock…..”

“This is where things get confusing. Sherlock was the only man of law who had cornered him twice by outwitting him. But he didn’t kill him or arrest him. Some say there was no proof. Some said Sherlock wanted to preserve that brilliant mind. My husband believes Moriarty had started to screw his brains, they would meet discreetly and Moriarty would try to brainwash him and recruit him.”

“Impossible,” John waved a hand dismissively, “How can someone like Sherlock Holmes be brain-fucked so much that he turns to crime?”

“Thankfully he didn’t succeed. Then he just disappeared. Moriarty, I mean. No one know what happened to him, nobody. But it was believed he had killed himself. Funny, Sherlock really did want to be the one to bring him to justice and ensure he got the necessary indictment and sentencing in court, because the news of his death depressed him quite a bit. He began to use excessive amounts of opium and cocaine. Had to be cleansed and rehabilitated for a whole month, under Mycroft’s orders.”

“Strange,” John said with a one shoulder shrug.

“What is?” She asked.

“This obsession with Moriarty.”

“They were polar opposites in their ways but very alike in their brilliance. You see John, when someone is too good for his peers, he tends to become very lonely. No one understands brilliant men who are ahead of their times. _Maybe in Moriarty he found an equal, someone who could have been a friend had he mended his ways_…..whatever it was, Sherlock eventually moved on.”

‘_Maybe in Moriarty he found an equal, someone who could have been a friend had he mended his ways’ – _The words kept ringing in John’s ears for several minutes as they sipped their tea in silence, both lost in their thoughts. But where Libby was thinking about her husband and Sherlock and the dangerous elements and risks they encountered at work, like Moriarty, John was fixated on what he had seen two days earlier through a window. It was the day Sherlock Holmes had been released from the hospital and allowed to go home. John had given him a ride back but for some reason Sherlock had asked him to stop right at the other end of the street. “I think I’ll walk the rest of the way home, thanks a lot Jawn,” was what the tall green eyed man had said, avoiding eye contact.

It was the lack of eye contact that had roused John’s suspicions, then the manner in which Sherlock had sprinted away from him, as if he couldn’t wait to get back into that house. There was other instances too, which had made him wonder about Sherlock’s state of mind. He had heard a few words just before Sherlock had been taken into surgery and those words had also stayed with him, often poking him like sharp daggers, drawing a little blood each time. On the day Sherlock had woken for the first time, he had breathed out the same word.

The last word before losing consciousness, the first word after he had regained it. John knew he couldn’t have been mistaken. Yes, it was the same word, the same _name._

“Jim.”

“What was that John?”

“Um…did you know what Sherlock called Jim? I mean, you called him Moriarty, I have read his name in the papers as James Moriarty, but what did Sherlock call him? James? Moriarty? JM?”

“Not sure about that. Why?”

John remembered the sight in that living room, the moment he’d secretly spied on, like a thief looking upon a private moment and analyzing it. Sherlock was talking to no one and yet there seemed to be someone there, listening and responding. He even reached out to touch somebody, in an empty room with not a single other person present in it. He hadn’t heard the words but he did read the sheriff’s lips.

He had been repeatedly addressing someone invisible as ‘Jim’.

***

_1 month later_

“Sherlock, these are so wonderful.”

“Merry Christmas Jim,” Sherlock said as they sat under the Christmas tree, smiling happily at each other. Sherlock’s violin lay next to him, he had just played a few Christmassy tunes on it, while Jim grinned broadly at the array of gifts Sherlock had given him. An Emile Berliner innovation on the Edison and Graham Bell phonographs from the previous decade, it was a graphophone, or, gramophone as he liked to call it, with flat shaped vinyl discs which played back recorded music and songs. A pathbreaking invention had been given the right commercial twist and the rich and elite were scrambling for a piece each, to give it the pride of position in their mansions. Sherlock had got one for Jim, along with several discs. At the same time he had also ordered and procured some books Jim loved, about twenty of them.

It had taken away all of his bonus and a reward he had received earlier in the month. But the look of happiness on Jim’s face was worth every penny spent on these gifts. The former criminal looked on with childlike delight, turning pages, looking at the discs, talking incessantly and thanking him over and over again. Sherlock sat with his mulled wine, amused and content, just watching the man through unblinking eyes.

Of late, he had started considering Jim as _a man_, as a true companion and partner. The thought that his housemate was a ghost who was no longer a human form or a life-form, that didn’t even occur to him anymore.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Sherlock said, “You bully, you made me give you your gifts a day earlier.”

“Won’t you open yours?” Jim looked at him wickedly.

“How did you even _wrap_ it?”

“After the fiasco with your accident, I started to train myself to be able to use telekinetic powers and the energy within me to move and mold things. I still can’t feel them, nor can a human feel me, but I can get things done. Watch.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and moved it to the gift box.

Sherlock blinked, “How did you do that?”

  
“Just open it already, Mr. Question and Answer!”

Chuckling, Sherlock did as he was told and a gasp of surprise, laden with delight, escaped him. It was the most perfect gift ever for a crime-fighter and truth-seeker like him. In the large box was a thick file with details of several dozen criminals, their dens, their aides, names of those in high places who collaborated with them, the work they did, where they put their money and stashed their stolen goods, where they had hidden the bodies, all neatly put together with addresses, proofs, letters and hardcore evidence, enough to indict all of them and get most of them behind bars or in the gas chamber.

“I am not even going to ask how you have all this,” Sherlock said with a twitch of his brow, “But I can more or less _guess_.”

“They were either my aides or rivals or adversaries,” Jim said with an impish grin, flipping through the pages of one of the books, “As a measure of safety and perhaps insurance I had created and kept this file with myself, determined to use it against them if anyone dared to betray me or cause any kind of harm. In the profession I was in, there was no one you could trust, _absolutely nobody_. No one knew about this file, not even my right hand man Colonel Sebastian Moran. His name is not in this though, he was….is a good man, I don’t want him harmed in any way. I had kept it concealed for the correct time and occasion to arrive and I think that is now…..there can’t be a better gift for you, at least not in the current situation we both are in.”

“What is wrong with our situation?” Sherlock asked in a miffed tone, “And who is this Moron?”

Jim’s eyes narrowed, then glittered with realization, “Moran. Sherlock Holmes, you’re jealous.”

  
“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not. Don’t change the topic.”

“Gosh, stop wringing the neck of the tumbler and spilling the wine on yourself.”

Sherlock realized, much to his embarrassment that he had indeed wetted his crotch area by spilling the mulled wine he was drinking. He set the tumbler down on the floor with a resounding thump and pouted like a child, feeling jealousy burn through his skin. “So we are not in a good situation and Sebastian is too precious to be hurt by the law, even if he was a criminal as well.”

He felt the ghost shift closer and put the book away. “Look at me,” Jim said. There was a chuckle in his voice. “No,” Sherlock snapped. “Please.”

He turned and Jim was inches away. He reached out and ruffled Sherlock’s hairs, “It was one sided Sherly. He loved me. I liked him and respected him, he was a capable and brave man, he was fiercely loyal to me and saved my life on many occasions. But he knew I was not in love with him, not in the way he would have preferred. He had made peace with that much before I died…..but then….he….”

Sherlock was a bit placated already but he chose not to give away anything for now. Why make this easy on Jim? So many times he had to plead and beg for hours before Jim relented and stopped sulking or started talking to him again. Still, he couldn’t control his curiosity and asked, “He what? What about him?”

“Yeah, about him……about Sebastian…..Sebby,” Leaving the sentence unfinished, Jim leaned against Sherlock, looking relaxed and easy in his body language but his facial expression suggested he was a wee bit worried and wistful. Sherlock felt nothing but a slight sensation, as if a field of energy was mingling with his own, but that in itself was all he needed. Jim’s presence, this vision before him, this thing they shared, _whatever it was_, it worked very well for him and felt more real than anything else he had ever experienced before. He symbolically kissed Jim’s hairs, feeling nothing solid but his soul was nourished by the gesture, as was Jim’s, because that was what made him shed off all hesitations and share his fears with his Sherlock.

“You know, my death hit him very hard too. It wasn’t just you who got left behind, it was him as well. We worked very closely together, for six years. I was just nineteen when I met him, he was a good ten years older than me and had just been dishonorably discharged from the army. He was and perhaps still is the best sniper in the world. He was the only one who knew what I had planned to do. Remember, I had made plans to stop everything, surrender my assets and start anew, the two of us?”

Sherlock felt a lump rise to his throat. “Yes,” he said softly, “As if I could forget.”

“I wanted to send him to England, back home, where he had a twin and some childhood friends, with a nice fat payment so he could do what he wanted to do…..travel and write novels, short stories, plays and travelogues. He loved to see new places, mingle into different cultures, he wanted to be a writer and I wanted to ensure he was so well provided for that he didn’t need to do a day job.”

“Where is he?”

“He lives in Newport.”

“Is he still…..”

“No. I mean, I am not sure. Sometimes I wonder how he is, if he’s even _alive_.”

Seeing the distress on Jim’s face Sherlock decided to put an end to the discussion, at least for the day. It was Christmas Eve, not the time or moment to get caught up in sad memories, regrets, anxiety and the like. “Hey,” he said, looking at Jim fondly, “I forgot to tell you something. You made me open my presents tonight because you’re thinking I will be spending Christmas with my family tomorrow, isn’t it? Well, no, _I am not_. I am going nowhere at all. I won’t leave you alone on Christmas.”

The happiness he saw in those doe eyes made his day, month and year and suddenly Jim climbed on to his lap and whispered, ‘How many more Christmas gifts are you going to give me Sherlylocks?’

***

Jim apparently had another gift for Sherlock and when he took it out that night the sheriff/marshal was astounded. It was a phallus shaped object, made of smooth marble, with a handle so one could use it for pleasure purposes and breach one’s own body with it. It’s size and shape were that of an erect male sex-organ, of above average size and girth. It was something Sherlock had never seen before and the moment Jim climbed on to the bed with that object and a vial of oil, the young law-keeper trembled with anticipated pleasure and ecstasy. He breathed heavily as he spread his long legs.

“If I was alive and we were having sex, would you be top or bottom?” Jim asked, pouring oil on Sherlocks’ fingers and ordering, “Open yourself up.”

Sherlock had never done this before but he didn’t want Jim to consider him a blushing, frigid virgin either, so he followed his instincts and started to massage his opening, wishing it was Jim’s fingers instead. “I-I think, I would have loved to take you but-but, sometimes, I would want you to do this to me….” He rasped out, then inserted one finger. He closed his eyes and imagine he was doing this to Jim. Soft velvety heat, muscles caving in one his digit, the feeling of the puckered entrance clenching and unclenching around his finger before slowly relaxing and swallowing it in. “Add another,” Jim said, his voice strained, his posture eager and watchful.

Sherlock soon had three fingers inside himself and his hips rocked to the movement of his own fingers. When he was finger fucking himself incessantly, Jim asked him to stop and helped him pull them out. “Nooo,” Sherlock whined, “Feels empty.”

“I’ll do this to you,” Jim whispered, he seemed to be panting. _Do ghosts breathe? Pant?_ Sherlock’s mind was so addled with lust he failed to think further around this, instead surrendering himself completely to Jim. “You trust me Sherly?” Jim asked him softly.

“Yes. Totally.”

“Then relax, keep breathing. I will use this on you. You can touch yourself now, use some more oil and keep jerking yourself.”

Sherlock did just that and continued to do so while Jim crawled closer and planted himself right between his open legs. Sherlock blinked, waiting, anticipating. A second later a huge cry left him as the blunt end of the ‘object’ breached his oil-slick opening.


	8. Colonel Sebastian Augustus Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sated and blissful Sherlock wants to make Jim happy. For that purpose, he tracks down an old ally.

Sherlock was a panting, hot, sweaty mess as he thrashed about on the bed, being fucked by Jim who was using the toy on him. As he moved the marble phallus in and out of the young sheriff, Sherlock thought his brain and heart would explode from the overload of both sensations and feelings. As his heart swelled with love for Jim, so did his brain go on overdrive as pleasure mounted all over his body, leaving him a pathetic bundle of moans, pleas and wails.

He was not sure how much time had passed or how much longer could be pleasured like this without imploding. One part of him wanted this to continue forever while the other part was looking frantically for culmination, for completion, for relief.

“Godddd, Jimmyyyy, pleeeease,” he screamed, voice hoarse and throat sore from all the noises he had made so far, his cock so hard it was hurting him now, his balls throbbing and drawing up as his entire body prepared for the peak. But Jim was playing with him, probably fulfilling his fantasies finally where he was the one pleasuring Sherlock instead of just using words as the green eyed man pleasured himself while he watched. Sherlock could hear his panting sounds, could hear him mutter and coo, he could feel his presence like he had never felt before, almost alive and right there next to him, like a person of flesh and blood and not just an image, a mirage which refused to become real.

_That was when a strange surreal waking dream popped up in his head. _

***

“I want you now.”

He heard his own baritone as those words came out of his mouth. He saw himself entering the room, clad in a towel, predatory eyes on the naked man reclining in his bed. Jim was a picture of sex on legs, his svelte, sexy, nubile body almost like that of a youth on the cusp of manhood.

He was hard, cock jutting out from a thatch of dark curls. His pupils were dilated, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. His smooth sculpted chest heaved with every breath he took, lips parted to allow noisy exhales. His rosy nipples had peaked, his beautiful toes curled with anticipation as Sherlock walked closer. Jim was just as excited as he was and from the way he parted his legs to expose his hole, _just as ready_.

Sherlock dropped his towel, showing himself as hard as a baton.

In a flash he was upon Jim, mouthing his neck and his hands roaming all over the smaller man’s body, trying to imprint his touches on every inch that was exposed. Soon his mouth followed and Jim began to moan like a harlot.

Sherlock attacked him like a tiger would attack a prey, ravishing him mercilessly, greedily, desperately, as if this would be their first and last time together. Jim surrendered initially, before he took control by reversing their positions, kissing and nipping and touching Sherlock all over and giving him just as much pleasure as he had received from the man.

Jim felt so real, so good, so amazing. Sherlock knew his heart was beating like a train on track, his mind an utter, total blur as he felt Jim’s hands on his cock, coating it liberally with oil. He in turn coated his fingers with the same oil and flipped the smaller man around.

At first he licked at the crack, smiling when Jim’s reaction was just as expected. He parted his legs wider and pushed his ass up, reaching behind to part his cheeks wider and give Sherlock a deeper access. Sherlock dove in, eating him out in the earnest, relishing everything about Jim, from the taste to the scent to the sounds he made. And oh boy, the sexy, _sexy,_ noises he made as he accepted pleasure from the taller man! Sherlock could cum from those sounds alone. He slowly inserted his fingers inside his lover, opening him up and loosening him by scissoring his digits inside the warm cavern, then moving them in and out as Jim’s cries rose to an alarming level. Anyone who didn’t know better would think someone was in distress.

Then he entered Jim, the tight hole relenting and then swallowing him up. For a moment Sherlock felt even his balls might slip in.

He fucked Jim fast and hard, bringing them both to a shattering climax in less than two minutes. The way Jim spilled himself was spectacular. He shot all over the place, getting some on to his face, some on Sherlock’s neck, some into his own hair.

Sherlock groaned out loud as he emptied himself inside Jim, cumming so prolifically that part of it dripped out between Jim’s buttocks. Panting, shuddering, he pulled out and crouched between the open legs, lifting Jim’s butt a bit to look at the ‘sight’. Jim marked by his essence.

He didn’t give Jim much of a chance to recover. He was still hard and aching for Jim and in a flash he was inside the man again, pounding away as he claimed him once more. Jim babbled nonsense and clutched at his arms, face and shoulders, scratching him, breaking his skin.

Sherlock didn’t mind. He loved being marked by Jim.

“Fuck,” Jim managed to rasp out after a good ten minutes, “Going to cum again!”

  
“Yeah,” Sherlock lifted his head from Jim’s neck, “Yeah, me too, cum for me, let’s cum together.”

_And they did_, reaching their peak at the exact same moment, shaking and trembling so hard that they nearly broke the bed with the sheer force of their passion. Jim went limp in his arms and Sherlock took advantage of that and lay atop him for a long time, cock still buried in him.

***

The dream melted away, as did the feeling of Jim being real in his arms. Sherlock realized why, he was about to cum for real. He was so high strung he was afraid he would break. His legs lifted in the air and came down on the bed with a thump and at the same time he pushed his pelvis up to get more of the toy inside himself.

His otherworldly lover seemed to relent this time and sped up, letting him scale the peaks of pleasure this time without halting or slowing down. Sherlock moaned and thrashed uncontrollably as his prostate was brushed expertly by Jim who seemed to have no problems locating it every single time he pushed the marble phallus inside the taller man. “P-Please,” he moaned, “May I cum?”

“Cum,” said Jim, a husky and hoarse whisper which was ‘real’, as real as the arousal he somehow felt despite not having the means to experience gratification. For a brief moment Sherlock wondered if pleasuring him but getting nothing in return was a painful, hollow, draining experience for the ghost but his train of thoughts got derailed as his orgasm crashed down upon him_, an out of body experience taking over for a few brief seconds_, swirling him up in the air as if he weighed nothing and then bringing him down with a resounding crash that sent shock waves across his torso. He came and came, brain fried and helpless, an utter loss of control over body and mind indicating just how deep he was in this, with his Jim.

As his orgasm blended into severe aftershocks, his vision changed. He saw a few white spots dance behind a black screen, everything fading around him, everything but Jim’s satisfied laughter and the soft words telling him how sexy he looked as he came so hard.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he heard himself mumble like he was chanting some holy prayer, “Jimmy, Jim, Jim, oh Jim…..I love you.”

He blindly reached out for Jim, as if he was a drowning man trying to hold on to something to stay afloat. He knew Jim couldn’t hold his hand for real, but he did feel something, like his hand was trapped between two layers of air.

Then he heard the words he was aching to hear, words he knew was true, even if not spoken. Or maybe they had been spoken before. But he didn’t care. He was living in this moment and he needed to hear it now, from James Isaac Moriarty.

“I love you Sherlylocks.”

A huge sigh of relief, followed by a happy laughter left Sherlock. Then he just passed out. He had no strength left to stay awake anymore.

***

“Come on,” Sherlock said, “Sit on the horse with me.”

Jim frowned, “No, I can go without riding a horse or bicycle or carriage. You know that, right?”

Sherlock knew there was one thing about Jim that was not easy to bypass. The ghost was just like the man had been in his lifetime, mistrustful and suspicious, he had never liked surprises or sudden revelations, even if he liked to do that to others pretty often. Maybe it had something to do with the childhood he had, filled with ups and downs and losses and bullying and intermittent shocks of losing his father, his brother and his virginity to a man who had raped him as a thirteen year old. Jim had eventually taken revenge on all those who had been responsible for his violation and the deaths of his dad and brother, thereby sealing his wounds, but that didn’t ease the scars he carried.

“I know you want to know where we are headed,” Sherlock said in a warm, assuring tone, smiling at his lover, “But that will not give you the joy you’d feel when you see it suddenly…..a new year’s eve surprise and maybe a belated Christmas gift, one more gift. It’s something that you’ll _cherish, adore, thank me for_, I promise you that baby.”

“You sure?”

“Do you not trust me?”

“Yeah, I do, I am just not _comfortable_….”

“Okay, then I will tell you….”

“NO.”

Sherlock blinked. Jim seemed to have had a change of mind. He nodded and held up his left hand and said, straightening his back as he did so, “I do trust you. You’re right, maybe knowing this in advance will spoil the fun. It’s fine, let’s go.”

“Sure?” Sherlock’s green-blue eyes twinkled as he tilted his head slightly, testing Jim’s resolve. He was hoping the answer would still be a ‘yes’.

Jim seemed to be caught in a dilemma for a moment. But as his brown eyes met Sherlock’s, an unspoken bond was formed between them and he answered confidently, “Totally.”

Sherlock mounted his horse and rode down the street, Jim keeping up with him easily and saying he should go ‘around’ a bit more often. As they passed by the house of Dr. John Hamish Watson the surgeon ducked behind some bushes to avoid being spotted. He had been watching them from a distance for some time, or actually he had been watching ‘Sherlock’ for some time, intrigued, puzzled and concerned about his strange behavior.

“That one is a _goner_,” a female voice said right behind him.

“Mrs. Reddington,” John jumped a bit, “Stop sneaking up on me. What are you talking about?”

She had been working for John for a little over ten years, ever since the latter had left medical school and started his practice. Sometimes she took some liberties, which John allowed her as she had been more like an affectionate aunt and less of a housekeeper and cook. She also kept a strict and vigilant eye on John, always a bit worried for him since she knew John was a queer and it was not easily accepted in society. “You like the boy, don’t you,” she said in a low voice, shoveling snow off the garden path, “He is a handsome laddie, very respected and adored because he’s the best marshal we have had in decades and perhaps the best in our state, but he has some issues. As you just saw.”

“I know what I saw, but what did _you_ see?” John asked. As always he was tactful and careful with his communication, and didn’t want to negate her notion outright without understanding things from her perspective. In three months he had failed to understand Sherlock and needed some help, _any help_, to figure out this strangely reclusive and quiet man who seemed to disappear into his house after duty and never once peeked outside.

“I saw a man talking to air, to some shadow only he can see,” she replied in a matter of fact manner, “Just like that girl Julia. Poor child ended up mad. It’s so sad to see another one fast losing his mind. He is such a brilliant boy, he could have had such a good life.”

“Julia?” John frowned.

“Yes, she lived here last year, with her husband. Nice girl, just married, they say she was a psychic. She could apparently communicate with ghosts. The communication turned out to be s traumatic that she went nuts. Now she is in an asylum and her husband has left her and moved on to another town and another woman. But she dodged a bullet I say, at least she didn’t lose her life or limbs. Others were not so lucky. Some of them died, others were critically wounded.”

“Which asylum is she in?”

“Derby County Institution for Mental Health.”

“I see.”

“Take my word for it John, stay away from that house and that man. You cannot help him. He is already too enchanted by whatever it is that haunts the house. Julia once told me something, she said that ‘he’ was very gorgeous, had the most dangerous but beautiful eyes she had seen.”

Those words of hers struck John hard and he felt an ache in his chest. He didn’t think Sherlock was mad. Nor was he moving in that direction. Sherlock seemed to be smitten, just smitten. And the way he looked at that ‘unseen’ figure while he talked to ‘them’, it was clear he was totally taken in by that entity. _Whatever_ it was, _whoever_ it was, Sherlock believed in that and loved that, and that as reason enough for John to not be so dismissive about it.

“I love him Mrs. Reddington,” his jaw hardened in determination as she spoke, “Healthy or damaged, issues or success, problems or hauntings, I do not care. I just want him to be _happy_.”

***

Sherlock rode hard until they reached a fishing town by the seaside by the name Davenport. The people in that town were prosperous, thanks to the flourishing fishing industry and the equally thriving oil plants that existed close by. There was also a university there, drawing students from all over the country, and naturally that meant no dearth of jobs, entertainment and money for the fortunate locals. “Sebby lives in Newport,” Jim commented as they moved through the crowded streets, “It is only a hundred miles from here.” His comment seemed casual but Sherlock noticed a wistful look in his eyes.

“Do you ever think of visiting him?” Sherlock asked. The question seemed to unsettle Jim and he replied with a shrug, “Never thought about it.”

“You don’t do a good job with lies, especially with me, or maybe _I can read you really well_ and see through your lies,” Sherlock gave him a knowing smile and waited for a rebuke, a temper tantrum or some choice cuss words to fly. But none came and Jim seemed to be a bit lost in his thoughts as they traveled. Mindful of not drawing attention towards them by talking to someone ‘invisible’, Sherlock muttered under his breath, “We need to take a right turn from there, go up that path towards the hilltop. You see the lighthouse there and a couple of houses around it?”

“Yes,” Jim replied, squinting. “We’re going there,” Sherlock said, “Come on, follow me.”

“Why?” Jim asked, confused. “You’ll see soon,” Sherlock replied, “Just a few minutes more.”

They reached the spot in ten minutes, a little away from the din and bustle of the town, and found the views to be breathtaking. The main house located there was also quite pretty, a Tudor style house built over two levels, adjoining the lighthouse, and painted in fiery red and pristine white. The garden was barren at that time but it would surely look quite a sight in spring, summer and autumn. The two smaller houses were little cottages, but within the same property, fenced in from all sides to form a cluster. A carriage was outside, one of the expensive covered ones, and at least four horses in the stable.

The sound of hoofbeats alerted them to someone coming up the sloping path, right behind them. When Sherlock saw the look of astonishment in Jim’s eyes, he knew who it was even before he had turned.

_Colonel Sebastian Augustus Moran. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos and comments. Sometimes every writer needs them. It would be good if you let me know some of you are still following the story and still interested in Sherlock fics.

**Author's Note:**

> I do intend to give it a happy ending, however, I am not sure how I shall do this. So for now, request you to join me for the ride. It's not an overall sad, tearjerker. I promise :)


End file.
